


Getting Wrecked

by Lycaenion, Spiderheart



Series: The Wreckedverse [6]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Anal Sex, Authorial Wish-Fulfillment, Bathing/Washing, Biting, Canon-Typical Violence, Constriction, Double Penetration, Drugged Sex, Edging, Happy Ending, Kink Negotiation, Kink education, Kinky Ace Alastor, M/M, Murdering Valentino, Non-Sex-Repulsed Alastor, Oral Sex, Overlord!Angel Dust, Political Intrigue, Polyamory, Romance, Sex Toys, Sex Work Positive, Snakes, Spider stuff, Spiders, Succubi & Incubi, Surgical vivisection, Tentacles, Trans Character With Happy Childhood and Supportive Family, Trans Male Angel Dust, Vibrators, Vore, World-Building That Is Non-Compliant With Canon, navigating trauma, positive character development, sex venom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-01-21 09:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 61,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21297326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lycaenion/pseuds/Lycaenion, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiderheart/pseuds/Spiderheart
Summary: Sometimes, the weirdest things lead to your life changing completely. Angel joined up with the Happy Hotel because he thought it was a front for a brothel (like every other hotel in Hell), and a safe place to get some privacy from Valentino; after two weeks of frustration, Angel decides to get wrecked--and by chance, ends up with not only an overlord boyfriend more powerful than his overlord pimp, but power and influence he'd never even dreamed of having. What's in store for Hell, now that its media are controlled by a power couple unparalleled?
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Angel Dust/Serpent of Eden
Series: The Wreckedverse [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535261
Comments: 108
Kudos: 594





	1. Tea with the Drug Overlord

**Author's Note:**

> 'Lovely' is slang for PCP.

Yvelle didn’t sleep; she didn’t need to, never had, and always liked to be awake to greet and talk to her clientele. It had been years since she had been a working succubus; no, she was thoroughly retired now, and only had sex when she felt like it. Given she was rolling in it, she could often afford the best—including, much to Valentino’s ire, Angel Dust, himself. Not that she ever did—she was a she, after all. But she did like when the movie star came in, liked to hear about the movie business. The shine of it had never worn off, here in Hell, where the movie business was still of the studio contract system.

Tonight it was bustling, _everyone_ was talking about the princess’ interview, mostly derisively. The older of her clientele, the Fallen, were even speaking with a bit of pity. The poor creature meant well, but she was naïve. Bets were made on how long it would take for her to learn the truth (though none of them ever said what it was—they knew). Eventually, however, it calmed down, as it always did, around five in the morning. Morning in Hell was always so quiet, and Yve liked it best, sitting behind the bar that also served as the front desk, sipping her favourite cocktail and reading one of the many erotic novels written by the demon once known as Oscar Wilde.

The quiet was suddenly and brutally cut off by a loud and underworld-weary, _‘Uuuuugghhhh,’_ and Angel Dust made his entrance in something between a slouch and a somersault, depositing himself on his back across three of the stools. He blinked woefully up at Yvelle, upper left arm thrown across his brow. ‘Give me one of everything and everyone you’ve got, Yve. I’m gonna need it.’

Yve poured him a starter of a glass of his favourite: gin on the rocks. ‘Lord Sinuous is here,’ she offered. He always was, it seemed—she had a room saved for him on the penthouse floor. She slid the glass over to him. ‘Though I understand if ya aren’t exactly mood for the… _ophidian_.’

‘Satan save me from snakes with titles,’ Angel grumbled, picking up the glass and draining it in one mouthful, crunching on the ice. ‘At least Sin knows what he’s goddamn doing. Which is more than I can say for some people.’ And at least Sinuous knew a come-on when it slid a hand up to his vent. Pentious was so oblivious it _hurt_.

Yve laughed. ‘That’s what you get for flirting with _boys, _honey,’ she said, leaning on the counter, prodigous tits in hand’s reach, though she knew Angel wasn’t interested. ‘You need a _man,_ I know that look. That hotel let you have _any_ fun?’ Yve was unimaginably old, but her voice and demeanour were a bit like Angel Dust’s own time. Hell just lent itself to the noir and jazzy. It had been a grand time for Hell, and everyone sort of missed it.

Angel plunked the glass back down on the bar, crossing his legs and lower set of arms. ‘It is the exact opposite of fun. It is the Anti-fun. And that was _before_ Radio Demon showed up. Because it’s fun according to _him, _did I mention that? Which in my line of work we call a bad fucking sign. Not that he’s ever actually in my line of work. I’m not even sure he has sex. It’s terrifying.’

Yve rolled her eyes, looking at her nails, ‘Yeah, tell me about it. Hey,’ she said, hiding a snicker. ‘Maybe—maybe that’s where his power comes from!’ She laughed so hard she snorted—an endearing or annoying quality, depending on who you asked.

‘Yeesh.’ Angel did a full-body shudder. ‘Count me out of _that _rat race. I’m staying in the minor leagues. I just don’t _get _it, Yves,’ he said, propping his chin on one hand, gesturing with two, and trying to slide the fourth behind her back to grab a bottle. ‘She’s Lucifer and Lilith’s kid, how’d she end up like this? She’s always been perkier than a new pair of tits, don’t get me wrong, but making demons _good?_ Where in the nine circles did that come from?’

Yve caught him with her tail, smacking his wrist with the flat of the spade. ‘Naughty,’ she said, in a fond undertone, pouring him an awful concoction she’d learnt recently, that she knew he’d like, as she spoke. ‘He sheltered her too much,’ she said, ‘never let her run around unchaperoned, always kept her away from the turf wars, she was practically raised by nannies rather than television. Tch. Here, sugar cock, it’s called a zombie,’ she pushed over the tumbler of booze. ‘You’ll love it.’ Her smile would have unnerved a regular mortal, but this was Hell. You got used to evil grins.

This time Angel actually sipped it. ‘Hey,’ he said, eyes widening, ‘I ain’t had one of these since the World’s Fair! Tastes better down here, though.’ He wasn’t actually sure if that was true — for a while he’d been scared that part of it being _Hell,_ with the eternal damnation and all, meant that nothing worked anymore, left you feeling the same no matter how much you took. Things did wear off faster, but part of that might have been the new body, the limits of which knocked his old one out of the park.

New body. It had been—however the fuck long—and he still thought of it as his new body. He stretched and sighed, taking another drink, leaving his wrist languishing in the grip of Yves’ tail. ‘Who else is around besides Sinny boy?’

‘Hm, let’s see…’ She relinquished his hand, tail twitching back and forth at the heavy tip, which only made the barbed tip catch the light. A fallen angel’s tail was a pretty menacing thing, not the little spade you saw humans draw, but a huge weapon of a thing, tipped with a venomous barb that made Sir Pentious’ fangs look like crayons in comparison.

Yve pulled out the registry book, flipping through it. ‘Well, there’s Shai, if you want something made to order, but if you want clientsssss… hmmm… there’s Proserpine if you fancy a bit of old-fashioned bondage, orgasm denial, and CBT… Sin would love to show you how a _real _snake can be your Daddy, I’m sure, complete with both his cocks… what’re you in the mood for, honey?’

‘You heard that conversation? I thought Princess was the talk of the town.’ Angel made a derisive noise, but there wasn’t any force behind it. ‘Old-fashioned is what I need right now. Sin’ll constrict me if I ask nice… but it’s not the _same.’_ He huffed. ‘I don’t know why Pentious even _has _those chains if he doesn’t know how to _use _‘em.’

Yve patted his hand. ‘So, you want I should call Sin or not? You know any of us do Old Fashioned damn well. How Old Fashioned you want?’

It was a valid question; bondage was normal among the Fallen, but the way you got tied up, and for _what, _was very different.

Shai was as obliging as any incubus, but liked asphyxiation (because they all did) more than actual tying down. _Too_ obliging; Angel Dust usually couldn’t stand incubi. Proserpine was one of the oldest, and would definitely chain you up nice and _spread out;_ but _they _were more interested in blood and whips than actually getting you off, so they were out, because the poor boy needed an orgasm. Sin was of a different mind, preferring his coils and venom, which gave you a helluva trip, if you were into being drugged and then fucked to within an inch of your life. Yve knew Sin was the best choice, of the three.

‘There’s not a lot of people here you’d like, darling, not right now—just Shai, Proserpine, or Lord Sinuous.’ Yve knew the truth of it more than anyone else—that was a madam’s job, really, was matching whores up with clients—but Angel Dust wasn’t from the era when you trusted a madam’s judgement, so she had to make the illusion of choice, and herd him gently.

Finishing his drink, Angel folded his upper arms behind his head. ‘Sin is in,’ he said. ‘Pretending to be reformed for two weeks was fuckin’ exhausting.’

He’d only gone along with it because he’d thought it was an endurance test, and if he won he’d get hired on to be the premier attraction of the Happy Hotel. He’d stopped listening after he heard the name, because it was _obviously _a brothel, like any hotel in Hell. Even after the whole debacle, he’d still preferred that version over the truth. Especially because Charlie was still positively oozing hope. The kid was going to get eviscerated, and not even in the fun way.

Yve reached for the phone. ‘You paying or is he?’ she asked, as she dialled his room number on the rotary, phone receiver cradled between her head and shoulder.

‘I am. Charlie bribed me into this little shebang and I still got some left.’ And if he was getting paid, he might feel like he had to actually do something, and Angel wasn’t up to that right now. He was tired and confused and feeling a bunch of other complicated feelings the Zombie wasn’t quite erasing, and he hadn’t exactly told Valentino about the Happy Hotel. Which, assuming Charlie still wanted him around, was going to cut into his work hours, because his work hours were when Valentino called him and said he had a client. And Valentino got a lot of clients looking to try out Angel Dust.

Yve grinned, and a moment later her voice changed to a sweet, smooth purr that could have made a lot of money at the phone sex business. ‘Lord Sinuous! I have a _very _pretty spider boy down in the lobby who wants a _real _serpent of sin to tie him up and make him scream…. are you interested?’ she lilted, as though she didn’t already know. ‘Of co-urse,’ she said, the familiar break in her voice coming back as she grinned mischievously. ‘I’ll send him right up.’ She hung up. ‘Room 808, honey. I’d take a real deep breath before going in, though, he was hissing up a storm.’ She winked, and handed him a big bottle of her best lube.

‘You’re a lifesaver, Yves. Or, yanno, whatever the equivalent is.’ Angel blew her a kiss and cradled the lube in his arms like a bottle of champagne. ‘See you when I stumble my way back down here.’

Yve laughed after him. ‘If you can walk after he’s done with you, I’ll give you a fucking trophy, kiddo.’

.x.O.o.

Room 808 was down, rather than up; coils were around Angel as soon as the door opened, and he was pulled inside, the door snapping shut behind him. Yellow eyes lit the dark, and a tongue flickered against his cheek.

‘Angel Dussssssst,’ hissed a whisper that was _much _better at Intimidating than any mortal demon’s could be. The coils tightened. ‘How good it iss to _sssssee _you, my dear.’

Angel let out a blissful little sigh. This was like sinking into a hot bath after a long day, easing the bruises and letting the crusted blood melt off you. He slipped out his third pair of arms, conveniently below where Sinuous had wrapped around him, and tickled those coils. ‘Watch you don’t crack more than my ribs, Sin, huh? I usually don’t start things off being drenched in lube. Well, I do sometimes.’ He wriggled, just for the sensation of it. ‘But I’d be a lot harder to hold on to.’

A soft laugh, and the coils loosened, long black hands extracting the lube. ‘You are sssssuch a delight, preccioussss,’ he hissed, re-tightening the coils, which got tighter every time Angel exhaled. They stopped at his waist, though, leaving his legs free. More coils wrapped his lower legs with slinking slowness, pulling them apart, Sin’s finger hooking the crotch of Angel’s hotpants and pulling teasingly. ‘Does thisss mean you want to bottom, ssssweethhhheart…?’

‘Oh, _fuck _yes.’ Angel’s voice was already half a moan. Something about this new slang really got his motor running, especially when said in Sinuous’ voice. ‘The only bottoming I want you to be doing is bottoming out in me. Use me _up, _Daddy, give me my money’s worth.’

He loved being with someone who knew what to do with him. Sir Pentious would probably have needed a college course.

A laugh that slid around you like silk and secret knowledge, and Sin pulled aside the black fabric, his other hand already slick and sliding between Angel’s thighs, up against the entrance that needed lube.

‘Oh, _preccioussss,’_ came the pleased whisper against his hear. ‘You’re _dripping,_ you little ssssslut.’ He slid a finger in, his palm soaked with the self-made lube from Angel’s _other _hole. Angel could hear the slight wetness to the hiss, that meant Sin’s venom sacs were overflowing, and he was unfolding his fangs… The anticipation of the high from that venom was almost—_almost_—as good as the high itself.

‘So’re you.’ Angel writhed, putting in enough effort that it might really have seemed, to someone who didn’t know him, that he was trying to escape. In reality he just liked pretending that Sinuous needed a reason to bite him, as if they both didn’t know how good it felt. His voice was breathy, the constriction starting to tell, and he loved it. ‘Put it in me.’

Not a laugh, but a hiss, and he made sure Angel could see him fling back his head, mouth open, fangs glinting in the low light, dripping, before striking Angel’s thigh, just at the iliac vein, making sure it went _straight _into his bloodstream.

For a starter, it flushed Angel’s hips so much they ached, and he opened right up for more than just a couple fingers, warm and pleasantly dizzy, but still aware.

‘Mmmm,’ those coils loosened around his torso, but wound around his arms, holding them behind him. ‘Ssssso loosssssse… how do you ffffeel, my dear?’ he toyed with Angel’s little cock with his fingertips, another hand knuckle deep inside Angel’s back entrance, and one of his many tails teasing at Angel’s front entrance, sliding back and forth along the slit.

‘Not full enough,’ Angel said dreamily, managing to arrange his mouth into a smirk after a moment’s concentration. ‘Keep going, you know I can take more.’ He worked his hips, trying to catch the tip of that tail. It wasn’t entirely for show, either—he was very flexible. ‘And I’ve been bad. Why, I was pretending to be _good,_ which around here is very, very, _very **bad**….’_

‘Oh my, yessss,’ Sin said, and Angel saw his two cocks slide from his slit, violet and with a glowing spiral of eldritch runes around each shaft, the glow only brighter after Sin tipped most of the lube over them.

Angel was empty again as Sin slid his fingers out, but it was only for a moment, before he was being speared on those cocks. It was so nice to be with someone who had perfect aim. No fumbling, no second or third take—Sin never disappointed. He’d been at the business of sin longest of anyone, after all. That’s why they called it after him.

Sin’s moan was a hiss, his fangs flashing in the light, and he made sure Angel was full to the hilt, pulling the spider-demon mercilessly down. ‘That’ssss—it—precciousssssssssss…’

Angel made a noise too low and drawn-out to really be a scream. Sin was big, Sin was _too _big, and even through the lube and the haze of the venom it hurt; but the hurt was _delicious,_ because what was pain but pleasure turned up a little too high? He was so full he was going to _burst,_ and he’d seen worse ways to have that happen.

He thought he said _yes,_ but he wasn’t sure if it made it outside his head.

He wasn’t the only one breathless—Sin gave a full-body shiver of delight. _‘HhhhhhhhhAngel Dusssst,_ you’re sssssso sssssssnug… ahh-hh, my _dear….’_

It was difficult to get Lord Sinuous to come undone, even a little. Angel was on the short list of people who could do it.

‘And I’ve taken every cock in Hell,’ Angel said, each word feeling like it had to be pushed out around the fullness inside him. ‘Some of ‘em twice. Enjoy it while you can, Sin, I’m a busy guy…’

That reminded him, distantly, that things were going to happen in the future, but the venom stretched out _everything,_ made it not matter. Only this mattered.

Sometimes Angel thought Hell was the best thing to ever happen to him.

Sin laughed, both of them enjoying the image of Angel fucking—and being fucked—by other demons. Angel could feel the shiver of movement as Sin laughed, and it was not unpleasant. The coils wound around him anew, trapping his arms to his sides and squeezing, so he was pinned inside and outside. Sin’s yellow eyes were level with his, seemingly the only thing in the dark between them, narrowed in a smile.

‘I doubt you’ll be able to ffffffuck anythhhhhing, afffffter I’m done withhhh you.’

He was hissing _all _sibilants now, not just S. That was the only warning you got, before—

The coils wrenched him up, and then shoved him back down again, and Sin’s punishing thrusting began. With the venom singing through Angel’s veins quite _thoroughly _(Sin always took the time to let the drugs really _take hold,_ because he was thoughtful that way), the experience soon blotted out everything else in Angel’s mind. Everything narrowed to the breathless fullness, the pleasure dancing the edge of pain, the high…. It was exactly what Angel had wanted, exactly what he _needed,_ and he surrendered to it gladly. He only just managed to murmur, in between thrusts, ‘You can keep me, Daddy, I’m your _toy…’_

He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, but he could dirty talk no matter what was happening to him. It was one of his special talents.

‘Good boy, keep talking and Daddy will give you another _kisssssss…’_

Sin loved Angel for that mouth of his; but he’d never make a move to take him from the movie industry, mostly because Sin liked things he couldn’t have, things he had to _steal._ It was no fun if someone was truly _his…._ And Angel never would be. That was just how he liked it.

Angel could have wept at the moments when Sin was almost all the way out of him, that wonderfully cruel instant of hesitation before the serpent slammed right back in, over and over.

‘You know me,’ he gasped out, ‘I never stop talking. ‘S nothing you can shove in my mouth that’ll shut me up, and believe me, they’ve tried.’ He could feel the venom’s hold on him receding, feel that he was starting to float back to the surface, and it made him desperate for that promised second hit. ‘Come on, Daddy, please, I want it with your come, fill me up—’

‘Mmhmhm, I do love when you _beg,_ my ssssugar,’ and there were those fangs again, at his neck this time, and, with Sin’s venom sac pressed against his face, he could feel it _squeeze,_ feel the venom rush into him, just like those cocks, the coils slamming him down and squeezing, raising his blood pressure, and the speed at which the venom spun round his body. ‘Come ffffffor me, Angel Dusssssst, come—ffffffor—me—hhhhahhhh….!’

Angel felt the snake’s orgasm filling him up, filling him _more, _the cream leaking out of him.

Angel would have obliged the request; but that would have required some kind of conscious decision on his part. As it was, it was more like the orgasm had _him._ He saw stars, and then those were blotted out by the brightness behind his eyelids as he threw his head back, every muscle taut in Sinuous’ grasp, held so tightly he was unable to even arch his back.

Fortunately, being a demon meant he didn’t need breath to scream, if he really put his mind to it. Or what passed for his mind at the moment, anyway.

.x.O.o.

Upstairs, Yve smiled to herself, as she poured Wilde a drink. He’d survived 119 purges so far, mostly because he was usually inside the publishing department of Valentino’s huge skyscraper, writing his latest book.

‘Ah, is that who I think it is, my dear?’ Wilde raised his glass in a silent toast to Angel’s return. ‘How good to have him back; I was terribly worried.’

‘So was I,’ Yve said, clinking her glass with his.

.x.O.o.

Sin panted in the darkness, Angel half-buried in his coils. He’d passed out, and left Angel to ride his high in relative peace. The venom would last for hours, possibly days. Sin never bottled it, he preferred to leave his most addictive drug off the streets, to be given only to people he _liked. _

People like Angel Dust.

Sin came to, and, as he was the one being paid, gently cleaned up the mess he’d made of Angel, giving him a warm shower and wrapping him in a warm towel. He even put Angel’s clothes back on—or, well, clothes that _belonged _to Angel. They weren’t the exact ones he’d shown up in, but Sin had a few extra outfits laying around, leftover from the times Angel had left without a stitch on, usually high out of his mind on Lovely. Those were fond memories.

‘Thank you,’ he said, when Angel came to—and not just because Angel was giving him money.

The shower and the towel had been vague but pleasant sensory impressions, tickling the edge of what the venom graciously let Angel call consciousness. He felt that scaled hide under his cheek more strongly, and turned his head enough to press a kiss to it, draping all six arms affectionately over the section of Sinuous’ body currently serving as his bed. ‘Ah, go thank yourself. No one does it for me like you, Sin.’

Sin chuckled, tucking the money away in the box he kept specifically for the money given to him for hits of venom. He shifted his body so that the door was clear, whenever Angel wanted to totter over to it.

Angel lay there for a while, savouring how he ached from neck to hips, the peaceful emptiness of having been utterly fucked out. He felt better able to deal with whatever Charlie was trying to do, now, and was pleased with himself for having figured out the trick of it. He wasn’t sore with her or anything; she meant well, and wasn’t the road to here paved with good intentions? It would probably be even better when it went tits up.

Across the room, his phone played a few tinny bars of a particular song.

‘Fuck,’ Angel said. ‘Boss wants me.’

Sin sighed, and only barely restrained himself from smashing the phone. He did, however, give in immediately to the temptation to answer it. ‘Hhhhhhello?’ he said, grinning. ‘Why no, thissss _isssn’t _Ssssir Pentioussss, hhhhhhhow _charmingly_ rasssscccisssst of you to get usss mixxxed up! _Angel Dusssst? _The _porn ssstar?!_ Oh, my, _no,_ I thhhhink you hhhhave a wrong _number!_ Iffff _I _could afffford Angel Dussst’ssss company, do you thhhhhink I’d be anssswering my _phhhhhone?’_ He threw in a giggle for good measure, which turned into his normal chuckle as Val hung up abruptly.

‘Stupid bitch,’ he muttered, mostly because he knew Angel laughed when he called the pimp a stupid bitch. He dangled the phone above Angel’s head, knowing his drug-addled haze meant he’d jump for it, making his tits bounce very fetchingly. Usually, Angel didn’t do that, knowing it was a transparent way to get a free show.

Giggling, Angel jumped for it, his attempts slow and sweeping and spectacularly missing the mark. He technically had motor control back, but his brain wasn’t sure what to do with it. It was like handing a five year old the keys to a roadster.

A roadster with incredible tits. He’d picked them out himself.

Sin played with him a little while, before handing him the phone back. Pretending it was a wrong number was safe, in that Angel wasn’t in trouble whenever Val saw him next. It wasn’t like Angel had kept the same number—he went through phones with regularity, enough that Sin could do that trick, or a dozen other ones, up to and including breaking the phone himself (usually just after paying Angel enough to just buy a new one).

‘It’ssss been a pleasure, precciousss,’ he hissed, kissing Angel on both cheeks, in continental style—it was pushing it, but Sin knew he was allowed to push the whore’s reluctance to ‘mushy stuff’ like kisses. _‘Do _come again ssssssoon.’

‘You know I will.’ And he meant it, in every sense. He’d be thinking about this for a while, especially when Val sent him on a particularly boring ride. Some demons had no _imagination._ At least that kind of demon didn’t tend to last long—again, in every sense.

Out the door, up the elevator (that took a few tries), and back into the front hall went Angel, his limbs going every which way, his pupils still swallowing his eyes, his whole face a grin. Everything was wonderful and everything hurt.

Yve grinned. ‘You want me ta call you a cab, sugarcock?’


	2. Tripping The Venom Fantastic

Wilde offered a ride to ‘wherever you might wish to go, dear boy’, and Angel had decided on the hotel, because shit, his stuff was there, and he wanted a bath. He kept thinking about how nice a bath would be, and he knew he was repeating himself, but he didn’t really care. Wilde just patted his hand and helped him into the car.

The venom was a huge dose, naturally, and better than anything Angel could get on the street. Damn Sin, he could have bottled that shit and sold it for however much he wanted, and Angel would pay. He couldn’t be mad though, he felt too good to be mad about anything. He stumbled out of the car and into the hotel, staggering straight into Alastor. Walking was hard, but Alastor was soft, and warm, and smelled nice...

‘You smell amazing,’ Angel giggled, pupils as big as God and hands everywhere.

Not missing a beat, Alastor jabbed him in the stomach with his cane, then picked Angel up by his collar when he stumbled back, holding him up in the air at arm’s length. ‘And you, my newly upstanding member of society, smell intoxicated. One might think you’re not really in the _spirit _of the thing, hmmmm?’

Angel had a story for this, even high he could talk. ‘Nuh-uh, I was... attacked. See?’ he showed his thigh, and the bite mark that was practically at his crotch. ‘Visishly attacked.’ The seriousness of his tone was somewhat hampered by the fact that he was hugging Alastor’s arm and nuzzling it. ‘You’re so soft,’ he mumbled happily. It was hard to hold a spider by the scruff; they had no up or down sense.

‘Yes, well, I imagine everything in existence is soft right now, so am I really the best selection?’ Static crackled all around Angel, and Alastor tossed his cane in the air, pried each of Angel’s hands off his arm in turn, and caught the cane as it fell back down. With much less effort than should have been necessary, he flicked his wrist, sending Angel flying backwards and onto one of the couches. ‘Our dear Charlie is going to be so dismayed to hear about your _attack.’_

‘I heard my name!’ Charlie sang out from the hall.

Angel giggled like a child being thrown in the air, and rolled around on the velvet of the couch, wiggling out of his clothes. ‘Oooooh velveetttttttt...’ he purred happily, looking thoroughly debauched, except for the bite marks on his neck and thigh. They looked a lot worse than they felt, deep as they were. He was lucky the couch and carpet were red... ‘Mmmmm....’

Charlie came in and stopped short. ‘Uh, Angel, why are you naked?’ She shot a wary glance at the Radio Demon.

‘I assure you; it wasn’t my idea!’ Alastor gave her one of those fixed, faintly luminescent grins. ‘I’ll let him explain. From what I understand, it promises to be a thrilling tale. Not disappointing in the least.’

If Angel Dust had scuppered this little endeavour already, Alastor was going to be very put out. He’d wanted Angel, and any future victims—that was to say, _guests—_to fail with style, not immediately cave in. You had to get off the ground before you could really crash and burn.

Angel turned the puppy eyes on Charlie—made all the easier by how wide his pupils were. ‘I was attaaaaacked,’ he said, holding out his leg, which was now bare. ‘Seeee? Venom. Not drugs. No drugs!’ he gestured expansively. ‘Bitten. Vishish...vissish...he was _terrible,’_ he put the back of his hand over his forehead. ‘I was helpless, jussst...just havin’ a walk, yeah, and then—’ more gesticulating. _‘Snap!’_

Charlie blinked. ‘You were taking a walk... naked.’

‘Is that really a surprise?’ Vaggie wanted to know, ambling out and turning a suspicious look on Angel and Alastor both.

‘Oh, no, no,’ Alastor hastened to explain, ‘he arrived fully dressed and has just now disrobed. Purely out of shock, I imagine.’

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. ‘You said _he _was terrible,’ she said to Angel, pointing at the bite mark. ‘Did you get in another fight with Sir Pentious?’

Angel burst out laughing, and it took some time to calm him down; he was currently only wearing one boot and his bowtie. He fell off the sofa halfway and ended up with his upper body on the floor, one leg flung over the back of the couch, the other splayed out.

‘Hey,’ Vaggie said, aiming a kick at him, ‘charge admission before you do that.’

Alastor, meanwhile, leaned over to get a better look at the bite marks, head tilting in clinical curiosity. ‘Fanged forensics aren’t really my forte, but I do believe the punctures are too far apart to have come from Sir Pentious.’ He gave Charlie a significant look over his monocle. ‘That points to a _bigger _assailant.’

Angel giggled, not feeling any pain. ‘Whya kickin’ me for, ‘scomfy,’ he whined. ‘Whya so srrrrrus all the time, Vaggie, c’manin’ laugh once inna while. Get fucked. Summin.’ Another, darker giggle as he noticed Alastor. ‘Wanna _taste?’_ he asked, sticking out his tongue playfully as he twitched his cunt at Alastor. It gleamed in the red light the Radio Demon gave off.

Alastor’s head snapped smartly backwards, followed a moment later by the rest of him. ‘If you’re trying to find a configuration of mouths and genitals I’ll agree to, you’ve struck out again, I’m afraid.’ He hoped it was just the venom talking; fending off constant solicitation was going to get tiresome fast. Was Angel _trying _to get on Alastor’s nerves, or was he just unable to admit to himself that there was someone out there immune to his charms?

Charlie, meanwhile, was tapping her chin. ‘Who’s big and has venomous fangs...’ Her eyes widened. ‘Angel, did you get attacked by _Lord Sinuous of Tree?’_

Angel giggled as the sense memory of Sin overwhelmed him—another feature of the venom. He squirmed, thankfully for everyone pressing his thighs together and hugging himself as he wriggled, ending up on the floor.

Sin was the drug lord paramount, in Hell. Every vending machine made money for him, every brand of heroin and cocaine and every little happy pill all came from his laboratory, his factory, his gardens. He had the only garden in Hell, a twisted parody of Eden, a walled and ceilinged greenhouse with better security than a prison, because it grew opium poppies, marijuana, and coca—among other things.

He was also Lucifer’s most loyal demon, the first tempter, the first one that had caused sinners to come to Hell in the first place.

‘So, let me get this straight,’ Vaggie said, folding her arms and leaning against the wall, looking down at Angel. ‘Lord Sinuous just grabbed you out of nowhere, while you were minding your own business, and bit you on the thigh?’

‘And neck!’ Charlie had crouched to get a better look, and now straightened up, a frown lingering uncomfortably on her usually sunny features. ‘He bit him on the neck, too. Ooh, was he trying to get Angel addicted? That’s just like him!’

_‘ “Trying”,’_ Alastor said, in an undertone like someone changing stations. The eye on his microphone blinked open to trade a dubious look with him.

Angel was lost to the world, in his own little world, having a nice aftershock orgasm. ‘Nnnnnn stop sayin’ his name, I can’t _stand _it...’ he begged weakly, each mention causing a new wave of pleasure to drag him down.

Bath! He wanted a bath! ‘Hey...help me up...’ he groped around with all of his arms, finally grabbing hold of the nearest steady thing—Charlie’s leg—and climbing up her to get upright, swaying a little at the level change and giggling at the rush of dizziness.

‘Whoa, hey!’ Charlie staggered back a little, more out of surprise than anything else, and reached out to help set Angel on his uneven feet. ‘Shouldn’t you be resting or something?’

‘Anyone would need some time to recuperate after an encounter with _Lord Sinuous,’_ Alastor said, examining his nails.

Angel collapsed onto the sofa again with a moan. ‘You’re a _bastard...’_ he said blissfully.

‘Leave ‘im, he’ll be a while if he got bit twice,’ Husk said from his place washing glasses. He chuckled like crushed and rusty bolts jangling in a glass.

‘Nnnnnononono,’ Angel protested, waving an arm. ‘I wanna bath...’ he said it almost tearfully. ‘Want a baaath. ‘S bathtime.’ This was threatening to turn into a bad trip, and he didn’t want that.

Charlie bit her lip. ‘I guess I could help you upstairs... And then,’ she said, jaw firming, ‘I should go talk to Lord Sinuous. He should know by now he doesn’t scare me.’

‘Let me be of assistance!’ Alastor laid a hand on her arm, smiling in a way he probably intended to be ingratiating. ‘I’ll see him to his room and draw him a bath, make sure the poor fellow doesn’t drown himself, and you can go straight about your very important business.’ He whipped a dust cover off a nearby chair, swathed Angel in it, and scooped up the entire bundle.

Vaggie side-eyed him. ‘Are you _sure _you want to do that?’

‘Absolutely, positively! I said I’d help, and help I will, even when things get’ — he fastidiously adjusted a corner of the cloth — _‘sticky.’_


	3. Be Careful What You Ask For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an illustration to this chapter, courtesy of a fan. You can find it [here](https://luxcip-art.tumblr.com/post/189007813151/show-chapter-archive)! Thank you Rain!

Angel was in a wonderful soft thing, and being carried, and he went limp. ‘Baaath,’ he said, on a giggle.

His room was on the top floor, and the elevator ride was long and silent, punctuated only by Angel giggling. It was a perfect opportunity to find out what was _really_ going on.

Or to just torment him.

Alastor could have provided appropriate music, but decided against it. ‘So,’ he said, making sure all of Angel’s arms were well wrapped up, ‘are you at all concerned that _Lord Sinuous_ might accost you again?’ He put a whole Victrola’s worth of spin on the name. ‘Charlie did raise a fair point about his motivation.’

He wasn’t going to choose between _torment_ and _interrogate_ if he could have _both._

The whole bundle shivered, and Angel kicked weakly. ‘You’re not an idiot, like the kid,’ he said, tongue loose because he was alone, high, and around someone he figured was more adult than Charlie and her girlfriend. ‘Whaddayou think, hot stuff?’

Flirting was a given. You had to expect that, talking to Angel Dust.

‘What do I think? What I think is that idiot or not, you can only keep up this charade for so long. If nothing else, you’re going to get bored.’ The elevator creaked and groaned, shuddering around them, as it continued upward. ‘So if I know roughly when you’re going to start yearning for your next fix, I can take some—oh, here’s a word you’ll know—_prophylactic measures.’_

Angel Dust was curious, despite the clear warning signs, and pressed on a little. ‘Oh yeah? Like what?’ He was fuzzy on details, but he’d heard the Radio Demon say enough to know he was gonna be able to snoop around while Angel was incapacitated, and Angel wasn’t sure what Al would do with the opportunity. He didn’t seem to like Charlie, and he seemed to think this was all doomed to fail.

Angel would have been offended, but he was kind of with Alastor on that one. Besides, he wasn’t exactly upset about his vices. Why be upset? It wasn’t even like drugs and alcohol destroyed you down here. He was dead, what’s the point of crying about it and going to church about it when you were already damned? Seemed pretty fucking futile to him, and about a thousand percent Catholic (he would know, he’d _been_ Catholic).

‘I could be persuaded to lay in a stock of something for you. Something a little more subtle that will keep you out of trouble.’ Alastor bent his head until he was grinning directly down into Angel’s face. ‘Wouldn’t that be a relief?’

He didn’t want Angel nipping out for a nip from Sinuous every time the mood struck, no, he wanted the spider climbing the walls with frustration. The longer he could keep Angel within the confines of the hotel, the more powder was added to the keg. A desperate Angel Dust would be a fantastic challenge for future residents trying to avoid depravity—assuming there were any.

‘Or,’ Angel Dust said, ‘or or ororororor.’ He started giggling again. Or was a funny word. ‘Or,’ he said, just once more, ‘you could draw me a nice bath and put in some mint oil and gimmie my vibrator and keep yer mouth shut about said vibrator. Howzatsound?’

Angel was very proud of himself. This was _peak_ negotiating.

‘Well, I might do up to three of those things!’ Alastor said, filing _that_ information away for later, the faint tint of green in his eyes fading as swiftly as it had arrived. He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy, even with Angel’s faculties somewhat less than up to snuff. ‘The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is, what’s in it for me?’

Angel was very far into his high, and had momentarily forgotten Alastor wouldn’t be interested. All he really registered right now was that Alastor was hot, not at all squeamish, and man-handling him. And Angel could handle men.

‘You can fuck my titties,’ he said, in that filthy purr that usually made people do whatever he wanted. ‘Or watch me cum. Maybe even use the vibrator on me, hmmm? Sadistic guy like you already teasin’ me halfway to bedlam, why not go all the way?’ Big smile, huge smile, almost as big as Alastor’s.

Almost being the operative word. ‘Because even if I were so inclined, nothing I could do would hurt you even a fraction as much as saying no.’

Angel Dust sighed. ‘Oh, you’re _that _kind of boring,’ he said, the barb blunted by his momentary lack of linguistic prowess. He wiggled. ‘Fine. Go’way then, lemme take a bath in peace.’

The elevator finally chimed and opened its doors, and Alastor stepped out. ‘Mm-mm-mm, I promised Charlie I would supervise. Besides, you intrigue me, Angel Dust. I want to see what you’re like when you’re off that tarnished silver screen.’

He’d overheard Angel and Vaggie’s muttered conversation, when he’d first come into the hotel. Alastor was professionally curious about anyone who had been in Hell for as long as Angel had and _didn’t know who he was._

Angel Dust made a noise like a _very _unhappy cat, and struggled. ‘This _is _what I’m like, genius! I’m the biggest slut in Hell, that’s it, that’s the inside scoop! Put me down, I can walk.’ He kicked a little, weakly, his body still slow to respond to his demands.

Alastor set him down, taking a corner of the dust cloth and pulling, spinning Angel around as it unwrapped. ‘Well, by all means, demonstrate. The walking, that is. I’m fully aware of the rest.’

Was that how Angel had avoided hearing about the Radio Demon? Throwing himself headlong into orgiastic mayhem? But he wasn’t entirely ignorant of Hell’s politics, or he wouldn’t have survived this long. Were sex and drugs really all he wanted out of eternity? That was hard for Alastor to comprehend. Hell had endless possibilities, he’d known that even before he died. Why squander them on mind-altering substances and bodily fluids?

Angel spun unsteadily until he crashed into a helpful wall. ‘Fuck you, if I weren’t high as fuck on the best damn drugs money can’t buy I’d be really angry right now!’ He giggled to punctuate this. Alastor, being a _friendly_ asshole? Whoda thunk?

Angel didn’t make the mistake of trying to walk too soon, he was used to dizziness, and waited for it to die down, sliding down the wall and sitting on the floor, his back against it. ‘What’s your angle, huh? You get off on humiliatin’ people?

‘…that _is_ your kink, isn’t it?’ he said, grinning like he’d had an epiphany. He wasn’t unfamiliar—Val was kind of the same way. Though, somehow, Al was a lot more laughs than Val ever was.

‘If it makes you feel better to believe that, then full steam ahead!’ said Alastor, considering Angel for a long moment and then offering him a hand up. ‘But really, I find it so much more enjoyable to watch others humiliate _themselves.’_

He didn’t expect Angel to understand him, but the fact that the confusion was mutual was… oddly endearing. And if Angel thought he had the Radio Demon figured out, he’d start getting cocky—well, cockier than he already was. (Alastor made a mental note to substitute “overconfident” if he ever divulged that part); and that left him vulnerable, in much more entertaining ways than he currently was.

Angel was, not that anyone usually noticed, _least_ vulnerable when naked; he stumbled a little steadier to his room, still hugging and stroking his own body with his hands idly, humming happily to himself. He fumbled a little with the key, dropping it a few times, and giggling to himself, before getting in, practically falling in once the door was open. The buzz was still pleasantly thick, but he’d gotten used to it enough, and it was quiet up here, letting him have more time to both enjoy it and function through it.

His bed, however, was too tempting. He flung himself on the soft linen coverlet, moaning happily and rolling around, wriggling until he found his hairbrush on the nightstand, and with a cry rather similar to the one he made when first being entered by something large and phallic, began to run it over his fur, moaning and sighing and, worst of all to the unwilling listener, _doing commentary._

‘Oooo_uuuhhh_, that’s so good…oh yes, oh, _fuck_…’

Alastor gave him a few minutes’ head start, then followed him into the suite. Angel hadn’t locked the door behind him, or actually even closed it. The Radio Demon settled himself in a chair in the front room, and waited, listening with a kind of detached politeness, occasionally playing snatches of music to himself. As soon as he heard Angel get up and go into the bathroom and start the tap running, he’d follow. A bath, he was still confident, was the thing Angel wanted most at the moment, and people who’d just gotten what they most wanted let slip all kinds of things.

He waited patiently, actually twiddling his thumbs, because no one had ever been brave enough to tell him it was a cliché.

Any minute now.

The noises continued, and continued to be unaccompanied by any kind of buzzing. Possibly Angel was just self-stimulating; with six hands it was probably a wonder he ever stopped.

Alastor waited some more.

At last he couldn’t stand it any longer, and went through into the bedroom, standing at the foot of the bed and looking down at the recumbent Angel. ‘Do you need help actually finding the bathtub, or did you just waylay yourself?’

Angel looked at him upside down, smiling. He’d already managed one orgasm just from stroking his fur with the hairbrush. Hands-free orgasms were his favourite. His pale fur only made the flush of his cunt more obvious, as did the size of his clit. Currently, he was stroking the hairbrush over his tits. ‘Oh right, bath!’ He flung the hairbrush away and slid off the bed, using Alastor to get upright again, just as a vine climbed an oak. He didn’t caress, though; but Alastor’s suit was velveteen, and it distracted him.

‘Mmmmsoft…’ he said, unable to pull himself away from the sensation, even though he knew it was a bad idea bad idea bad bad _bad **bad idea**_… that part of his brain was not in control right now.

‘We’re back to the beginning, I see.’ Peeling Angel off him yet again—it was getting easier with practice—Alastor went to the other door leading off the bedroom, which, on inspection, did lead to a well-appointed bathroom. It had seen better centuries, but was as scrupulously clean as Niffty could make it, Alastor having turned her loose on the whole building, over Charlie’s protestations that she’d “been working on it.” The princess had to learn that appearance was very important.

He held the door open, beckoning. ‘Come on then, chop chop!’

Angel giggled, he couldn’t help it. ‘You’re hilarious,’ he said, not altogether kindly, as he lurched for the bathroom, stumbled on the edge of a rug, and groped for Alastor to keep from falling….

Alastor took half a second to reflect on the choices he was making, then caught Angel before he could hit the floor or, worse, drag Alastor down with him. ‘I think that answers my earlier question. Let’s go see about your ablutions, shall we?’

‘Which one? Yer a… a questionable guy,’ he said, with the over-enunciation of the very drunk. His memory was shot, he barely remembered anything before coming up here. ‘Anyone ever tell you it’s a… it’s a damn shame you aren’t the fuckin’ kind?’ he said, meaning it to be kind, trying to be polite in his own way. Polite didn’t really work for him, but he liked Alastor holding him up, and drawing the bath, and he certainly didn’t want the man _angry_ with him. So he was trying.

Alastor gently picked up one of Angel’s hands and put it under the water to let him feel the temperature. ‘On occasion.’ He didn’t say that normally he suspected it of being regret at losing a bargaining chip more than anything else. He was aware that people found him attractive, but it was Hell. Everyone had ulterior motives. He was glad he didn’t leave that particular string hanging for anyone to pull.

Angel sounded almost sincere, though. Given he was the type to go around fucking the Fallen, was he just interested in the notoriety, now that he’d been apprised of who Alastor was? Or was it something else?

Alastor wasn’t interested, but he _was_ curious.

‘Cause… cause yer a real looker, y’know, mmm, ‘s nice,’ he hummed at the water, feeling calmer already as he looked at the tub. ‘Hey, yer gonna help me in, right? No way I’m climbin’ in on my own steam.’

Angel was pleased the initial lovey part of the venom was smoothly, with the help of the warmth, segueing into the pensive calm, the supreme serenity that would last until he probably fell asleep—unless Alastor meant to stick around and talk to him, or hand him a sex toy.

‘Certainly,’ Alastor said, doing just that, one hand still holding one of Angel’s, the other on Angel’s back, guiding him into the tub and making sure he didn’t slip.

‘A real looker, am I? I do look, yes, I do keep my eyes on a lot of things, and my finger on the pulse! And a sharp ear pricked, of course!’ He settled into the patter, figuring Angel wasn’t really listening, just wanting to keep him at his ease. ‘It was mint oil you wanted, wasn’t it? Nice and cooling, I imagine they make a _mint _off it down here…’ He slanted a sly, fanged grin back at the tub, just in case Angel happened to be watching.

Angel’s laugh was less of a giggle now, warmer and more velvety. ‘Mm, well, I get a lotta gifts from fans—some of ‘em are even nice ones.’

He leaned back, feeling luxurious and cared for as Alastor poured a measure of oil into the bath. Just about half a shot, really—he kept a shot glass in the bathroom for just that purpose, and Nifty had even cleaned it. He stirred the bathwater with his middle pair of arms, the uppermost pair folded behind his head, the lowermost reaching for his cunt—not really to stroke it to orgasm, just to touch, make sure the bathwater got into every little fold and crease, behind his foreskin, the whole situation.

‘I mean it, yer gorgeous,’ he insisted, eyes half-closed in pleasure. He let his lower hands go limp, faux-carelessly placing them so they covered his cunt—mostly.

Somehow that was more provocative than when he’d been lolling around with everything free to the open air. Alastor wondered how _that _worked.

‘And you, my friend, are vivacious,’ he said, looking around the room for any kind of bathing implements. ‘When I first got here, I was worried everybody would be dour and grim, or busy with the old wailing and gnashing of teeth, but no sir! The pictures aren’t the only thing that’s moving!’ Not finding anything, he leaned against the tub, tapping a hoof nonchalantly against the tile. ‘But at the same time, you understand, nothing really _changes._ And that’s why I’m here.’

‘Well, if yer waitin’ for me to change, it ain’t gonna happen.’ Angel sank down into the water, closing his eyes and feeling the mint slowly work its way past his fur and into his skin. It really took very little. The bath finished filling completely, and he turned off the tap, sighing and laying still and quiet for a few moments, before, opening one eye. ‘Hey, since yer hangin’ around and all… ya wanna make yerself useful ‘n wash my hair?’

It was a test, really; he wanted to see if Alastor would do it, or if he really just hated Angel Dust for being himself. Angel was used to disgust when it came to actually dealing with him; nobody wanted to touch a whore, or a transsexual, or a queer. Take yer pick, babes, the whole mess was disgusting. At least in Hell, most people were horrible to everyone.

But _Alastor_ was _jovial_ to everyone, generous and funny. Angel knew it could be a front, but if it was, it was nice. Most people’s fronts weren’t nearly so genuine in their enjoyment of people, and Angel liked that about the Radio Demon.

Alastor considered him, then shrugged, spreading his hands. ‘If you don’t mind me making some educated guesses about where your hair ends and the rest of you begins.’ A little more hunting turned up a bottle of shampoo, and he shucked off his coat, hanging it carefully on one of the towel hooks, to kneel behind the tub in his shirtsleeves.

‘It wasn’t you changing to which I was referring,’ he added, pouring some shampoo into his palm and starting to deftly massage it into Angel’s scalp, keeping his talons out of the way for the most part. ‘But rather Hell itself. This pet project of Charlie’s promises something more than the endless cycle of turf wars and exterminations, no matter how it turns out. And that is simply _scintillating.’_

Angel hummed, but it turned into something of a moan—still, he kept his hands still, and did not press, or even twitch.

‘That feels good,’ he said, trying to tone down the innuendo. Hey, he could be polite when he wanted. The sedation from the venom helped. ‘Thank you,’ he said, carefully.

‘You think this place could stop the exterminations? Because I don’t. I don’t think Charlie’s ever even seen onna those guys up close. I have, I’ve fucked Proserpine before—well, as much as ya _can_ fuck ‘em, anyway.’ He laughed to himself, eyes still firmly closed against the soap.

‘Yes, I’ve heard Lord Sinuous is much more _obliging_, in that regard.’ Alastor kept his tone conversational, hiding how tickled he was that Angel had thanked him. Indulge a few of the spider’s whims and he really was putty in your hands, wasn’t he, even if sex was off the table (and any other flat surface)?

‘And no, I must agree with you. The folks upstairs derive more satisfaction from sending us screaming into annihilation than they ever would from seeing us become upstanding citizens! If that weren’t the case I imagine they wouldn’t send so many of us down here in the first place! But what I do tentatively dare to pin my hopes on, Angel Dust, is that maybe, just possibly, if this star I’ve hitched my wagon to rises sufficiently far, then Heaven will have to stop and take note. And when they do… who knows what could happen?’

Angel scoffed. ‘The less Heaven has their eye on dis place, th’betta,’ he said, accent getting thicker as he got more relaxed. He loved being pampered, and had so little time or opportunity to really do it. ‘Nothin’ but trouble—believe you me, I was Catholic once.’

It might have been why he’d let Charlie sell a room to him, might have been why he always had that itching guilt no matter how hard he tried to drown it out with drugs and sex and violence. He was in _Hell,_ for fuck’s sake, you’d think he’d’ve been free of guilt by now.

Alastor had a radio voice, but there was a slight twang to some of his vowels, something of magnolias in his scent, that pointed toward him being a Southern Baptist… or whatever the Hell other Christians they had down there, Protestants were so hard to keep track of, always splitting off and forming new variations on Protestant…. still, it was easy to hear Alastor’s voice preaching… whatever it was Protestant preachers preached about.

‘Oh, I never said it wouldn’t be trouble.’ Alastor’s nails dug in just a little. ‘But trouble, my arachnid acquaintance, brings _opportunities.’_

Angel gasped, arching his back slightly. ‘Ahhn, Da—ey! Careful,’ he enjoyed the pain, but was trying, he reminded himself, to be polite. ‘Don’t write checks y’ain’t willin’ ta cash, Al,’ he said, hoping the demon would get it, telling his cock to _settle down._

‘Of course, of course, my mistake.’ Alastor withdrew, patting him genially on the top of the head in a manner designed to irritate. He wondered if Angel had always liked pain, or if it was a taste he’d picked up since being damned. The best and most fearsome demons among the mortally-derived set were always those who didn’t have to do a lot of adjustment when they got down here.

Alastor himself was proof enough of that.

Angel tolerated it, as it was gentle touch, and that was rare, in Hell. ‘Hey! Don’t _stop_…’ he put a little plea in his voice, but tried not to whine. He made show of settling down. ‘C’mon, please, Al, that was really nice….’

When had he started craving Alastor’s touch? Was it just because he was off limits, and Angel had a perverse desire for anything that he couldn’t have?

Alastor went back to his ministrations, finding that he really was enjoying the tactile sense of having his fingers buried in Angel’s wet hair, being able to feel the spider’s little shivers from the top down when he unwittingly touched some particularly nice spot. He liked that Angel was enjoying it enough to have left off purposely trying to make him uncomfortable. ‘No one’s ever called me Al before, you know,’ he said. ‘At least, not without it being immediately followed by bubbling noises.’

‘Mmmmget used to it, I know I ain’t the only one,’ he murmured, leaning forward gradually, as Alastor’s touch went lower. Would he progress to shoulders? Angel knew it was futile, but he hoped so. He was glad the part of him that was suspicious was momentarily distracted with venom. ‘So, what, you wanna fistfight an angel or somethin’, izzat it?’ he joked, but half of him was seriously curious. Alastor was a wild card, who knew? Maybe he did want to fistfight an angel, or _God,_ or somethin’ crazy like that.

He got one of those buzzing chuckles that would have raised the short hairs on his neck if he’d still had them.

‘Given the opportunity, I wouldn’t say no! Although I can’t guarantee the amount of actual fisticuffs involved. Certainly there weren’t very many when I resolved that little scuffle with Sir Pentious!’ Alastor withdrew his hands, dipping them in the water at Angel’s sides, careful not to touch him. ‘Now I think it’s high time you rinsed off.’

Angel hummed, and sank below the surface, rinsing the soap and coming back up, leaning back and luxuriating. He was willing to bet Alastor was much more comfortable, now that the water was milky with soap and had some bubbles. He should have taken a bubble bath, but bubble bath always irritated his business, and he didn’t need that right now.

‘You wanna stay an’ talk?’ he asked. He didn’t mind getting to know Alastor better; they were going to be spending a lot more time together, and between the now two people running this business, Angel preferred Alastor over the princess.

‘I’d love to.’ To his own surprise, Alastor realised he was sincere, and it wasn’t even entirely because there was nothing better to do. He’d done what he came for, which was to get past Angel’s ablative layer of sleaze, and was actually quite intrigued by the depths of more complicated, nuanced sleaze underneath. Besides, people who wanted to talk to him were a scarce commodity indeed. ‘What conversational topic strikes your fancy?’

‘Don’t let me pick, gorgeous, you won’t like it,’ Angel’s smile was easy, but false; the ease in which he deprecated himself hinted at something else. Flirtation wasn’t talking about the _business _of sex, after all, wasn’t really getting into the possible reason sex was something Angel was so, well, passionate about. But nobody usually thought that far, so Angel usually waved it aside.

‘Oh, you never know. My personal lack of desire to do any sweating and gyrating doesn’t mean I won’t let you talk shop, if that’s what you’d like. Just leave my person out of the discussion, even in hypotheticals, hmm?’ He wanted Angel to feel comfortable, but that didn’t necessarily lead to wanting him to feel like he had Alastor’s number. And Alastor was more than capable of seeing a weapon when it was carefully not being handed to him. The more disgust he expressed, the more volatile and vengefully filthy Angel would get, out of sheer habit if nothing else.

But amicability? Now that might just keep Angel on the edge of his seat.

Angel tentatively wiped an eye, opening it. ‘Wait, seriously? You wanna hear me talk about sex?’ There was hope in that black and red eye, as much as one could read the expression when it was dilated and addled by what seemed like several doses worth of a drug far more potent than anything in a vending machine.

Alastor leaned in, smiling at his own reflection in Angel’s huge pupil. ‘I want to hear you talk about what you want to talk about, if you see what I’m about.’ He crossed his arms on the edge of the tub and rested his chin on them, tilting his head at Angel encouragingly. ‘I’m all ears.’

Angel opened both eyes, gave him a long look, then shrugged and closed his eyes, settling in.

‘Ask me somethin’; I can’t get going with nowhere to go,’ he said, folding his upper pair of arms behind his head again. He wished he had something cold and sweet to drink, that was always nice, with a bath.

‘Oh, well, if we’re doing an _interview_…’ Alastor contemplated whisking out his microphone, for appearances’ sake, but no one ever believed him when he said it was off. To be fair, they had a point—just because it wasn’t broadcasting didn’t mean it wasn’t listening. ‘What drew you to Lord Sinuous? Besides the obvious pharmacological allure.’

Angel contemplated it, contemplated why Alastor would want to know, contemplated just how carefully he had to answer and… fuck it. ‘Cos he’s hot,’ he heard himself say. ‘He’s all suave and smooth and powerful. Not like Val or you are powerful, he’s… y’know, he’s _old._ Who doesn’t wanna fuck the original tempter? Man, when he first asked me ya coulda knocked me over with a feather! I knew I was a real movie star, then… oooh, and, he’s actually real good in bed, you know? Not everyone is, but he’s _good.’_

He purred to himself, lower hands pressing on his cunt while his thighs squeezed together, and middle arms hugging himself.

‘How terrifically uncomplicated! Have you been disappointed in that regard by some of our other more _notorious _figures?’ Alastor was absolutely not above petty gossip, especially not when nuggets of useful information could be sifted out from the dross. Such as the fact that Lord Sinuous had been the one to proposition Angel.

(Alastor had actually given one of Angel’s movies a try once, because he had been curious to see how the advent of sound and colour had changed the pornographic films he remembered from his youth. The answer had been “not enough to hold his interest.”)

It was also worth noting that Angel’s default reference for power was Valentino. Unless they crossed him, Alastor left the so-called overlords to play their games, but he’d never been what you might call impressed by Valentino. He doubted Angel would have anything to reveal that would change his opinion.

‘Well yeah, being good at shootin’ a gun doesn’t mean _shit_ for whether ya know how ta please someone in bed. Sex is _hard,_ you know—well, you don’t know, but I’m tellin’ ya, it is.’ He folded his middle arms. ‘And the problem is, everyone with a big fat _cock_ seems to think havin’ one makes ‘em good at it, when most of ‘em don’t even have any rhythm.’ He shuddered. ‘Nothin’ worse than thrusts with no rhythm.’

He was on a roll now, and peeked over to see if Alastor was ready to leave yet.

Alastor only nodded sagely. ‘Everything needs rhythm! Music, oratory, beheadings…’

‘Right! Okay, you _can_ get it! Do you know how many co-stars I’ve had where I _sweah_ to _Gawd_—’ he actually stopped speaking English at that point, lapsing into Italian, complete with gesturing. One could tell it was not complimentary, however, and Alastor caught not a few recognisable names. He knew that even just knowing they weren’t good in bed was ammunition enough for their reputations.

After a while, Angel seemed to realise he had lapsed into Italian, because he stopped, coughed. ‘Anyway, most guys really can’t fuck worth a hill’a beans.’ He paused, then added, ‘but guys with small dicks? Once ya calm ‘em down about it, they’re all right. Better still if they don’t need calmin’ down about it. Only ever had onna those. Well, and the couple Romantic poet types that don’t even _use _their dicks. Sometimes sex is bettah without ‘em, honestly.’

There were a couple words here and there which had close enough cognates in French for Alastor to catch at least the general drift, and they added a new slant to his constant smile. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘And are there any prospective beaux you have your eye on? Uncharted territory? Or unexplored hills of beans, if you prefer.’ That might be more than Angel’s currently damped-down suspicion could take, but he couldn’t resist asking.

‘What, other than you?’ Angel said, without thinking. He got a punch-in-the-chest sinking feeling that was one of those things that would get him hit, or worse, and braced for impact.

Alastor might not have been touching Angel anymore, but he was still close enough to feel the spider tense up. He knew the pause he took to consider would ratchet Angel’s nerves up further, but for once didn’t take delight in it. Valentino was so _crude._

‘Other than me,’ he said. ‘But if I may ask, what _is _it about me? Is your interest purely anatomical?’

Angel making such comments once or twice, especially with the venom still coursing through him, was to be expected. But to still be thinking about it? That spoke to genuine desire, or at least persistent curiosity. Yes, it was leverage; but it was also _intriguing_.

Angel relaxed, fractionally. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I guess you hear a lot that it’s yer voice, but it _is_ a nice voice. And the power’s nice too, but… you’re…’ he sank down further in the bath, blushing. Blushing?? He thought he’d lost the ability to blush long ago. ‘You’re um, you’re _nice._ Not a lotta people are _nice,_ down here.’ It was one of Angel’s genuine turn-ons, much to his annoyance.

Alastor’s eyes went wide, and he let out a loud, protracted burst of static that seemed to be him doing his best to stifle gales of laughter. At last he cleared his throat and managed, with complete honesty, ‘I am delighted to hear you say that. Nothing is quite so deliciously depraved to the damned as congeniality!’ He winked, offering Angel the chance to save a little face. ‘Perhaps I should tell Charlie to play up that angle.’

It was novel, he reflected, to have charmed someone he had—at least for the time being—no intention of killing. Destroying Angel Dust would be _disappointing,_ he realised now. Not that he’d hesitate, if it came down to it, but he would have a few regrets.

‘Yeah well, her brand of nice ain’t so cute. You could crush my skull probably—but you didn’t. You just… you were gentle. You don’t have a motive! I mean, ya can’t want to fuck me, we’ve established that. And if you don’t want to fuck me, there can’t be another motive. So it’s… yeah. I like you. Say, maybe that asexual thing ain’t so bad, after all!’

He was, at this point, mostly talking to himself; but he hadn’t exactly forgotten Alastor was in the room, he just didn’t really have it in him to stop, now that he’d started talking.

When Alastor spoke again, his voice was quieter. Not, it had to be said, the way someone would normally lower their voice, but instead as though someone had just dialled down the volume. ‘You really think that’s the only motive there is?’

‘Don’t give me a pity party, I _like_ people wantin’ me for sex. I just wish people liked sex as much as I did, instead of it really bein’ them likin’ themselves.’ He shrugged. ‘Idunno, jeez, what are you, a shrink?’

Alastor adjusted his monocle. ‘You’d be surprised what people tell radio hosts.’

First niceness, now pity! What was Angel going to ascribe to him next?

Angel realised something, and the drugs kept him calm. ‘Y’ain’t broadcastin this without my permission are ya?’ Lucky for him he’d been speaking Italian, most of the demons here nowadays couldn’t understand it.

‘That would,’ Alastor said, ‘completely contravene the point.’

‘Huh… well, if you say so.’ Secretly, he was relieved. ‘Where were we? Oh right, you were askin’ if I gotta crush on anybody besides you.’ He grinned, a little playfully. Hey, playful was okay, right? Teasing was okay.

Right?

Alastor grinned back, which was to say the grin he already had changed shape somewhat, and gestured to Angel theatrically. ‘And the answer is…?’

‘Listen, I’d sugar baby the _heaven _out of Lord Sin, but I already know he’s only inta me so long as I’m _not _his.’ He shrugged, then looked Alastor up and down, trying not to make it too heated. ‘You do know that it doesn’t have to be sex between us, you could do a lotta other things….’

Shit, he might have found the one person Val would steer clear of. Wouldn’t _that _be nice? Maybe Angel could finally open his _own_ studio, pick his _own_ clients, maybe get a _good _writer. There were plenty of ‘em down here—Wilde, for a start.

‘ “A lot of other things”,’ Alastor repeated, canting his head to the side. ‘You’ve caught me, Angel Dust. I do believe I’d like to find out exactly what those are.’


	4. Not E'en The Head Wolf Shall Enter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _'The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, and where he has made him his home,_  
Not even the Head Wolf may enter, not even the Council may come.' Rudyard Kipling, The Law of the Jungle, The Jungle Books.
> 
> ...yes, I will continue to use Jungle Books quotes for any and all serpents in this fandom.

Charlie was still riding something of a high of her own: having commanded the Radio Demon without succumbing to a deal. She was a princess, and if she could do that, she could do anything. Including take the Fallen themselves to task, when they threatened to sabotage everything she’d been working towards.

It was with that in mind and her chin held high that she marched up to Lord Sinuous’ garden.

The small door in the towering gates was opened just slightly enough to show the tall and imposing form of his doorman, Edgar, who looked a little less down his nose, when he saw who it was. He bowed low.

‘Your Royal Lowness,’ he said, with utmost politeness. ‘How may I help?’

‘I need to talk to Lord Sinuous about his “_hobbies”,’ _Too late, Charlie wondered if air quotes hurt the authoritative air she was trying to project, ‘concerning the newest resident of the Happy Hotel.’

(She had, by this point, seen what Alastor had done to the sign, but she wasn’t at all sure she liked it.)

Edgar only raised one brow approximately an eighth of an inch. ‘My lord is not at home,’ he said, and offered nothing more. Edgar was known for his icy exterior, unflappable and unthreatenable. One always wondered why those like him were in Hell. One usually didn’t want to know.

‘Oh,’ Charlie flared, drawing herself up and jabbing a finger at Edgar, ‘because he’s out roaming the streets, biting more inno—’ no, even she couldn’t say that ‘—more _unsuspecting _demons who are just trying to get by? Well, I’m going to wait right here until he comes back!’ And she folded her arms.

Edgar, wisely, did not contradict her, nor invite her in. ‘As you wish, madam.’ He shut the door gently, however, lest she think it was slammed in her face.

It took hours, but a demon eventually came by.

‘You know he’s at Every Wickedness, right?’ she said.

Charlie’s adamant posture, which she had maintained remarkably well given the length of time she’d been holding it, took on a definite slump. ‘Um,’ she said. ‘Yeee-eeees? Well, no. What is he doing there?’

‘Do I _look _like I can afford to go in there?’ she cackled, and kept walking.

Every Wickedness had a lovely neon sign, it always did, and the interior was warm and welcoming without being too classy or too run-down. Yvelle was at the bar, as she always was, and regarded Charlie with a little surprise.

‘Your Royal Lowness? What brings you to my humble establishment?’ She was genuinely asking, never one to tease. She’d only met the princess once, but she remembered the wide-eyed and, frankly, _shocking _innocence.

Charlie took a deep breath. Demons didn’t actually need to breathe, as Vaggie was fond of reminding her, especially if they weren’t among those of the mortal-made who hadn’t yet broken the habit. But if her father had instilled one thing in her, it was that showmanship was very important. ‘I was told Lord Sinuous is here, and I need to speak with him.’

She was not entirely unaware of what went on in this humble establishment, but she was under some misapprehensions. As far as she understood, Every Wickedness, under all its appellations, was a very popular destination in which to engage in debauchery, but still essentially a hotel. Everyone called it a hotel, and that many demons couldn’t be wrong.

‘Oh, honey, I’m sorry, he’s busy at the moment,’ Yvelle really did sound apologetic. ‘I can fix you a drink while you wait?’ she offered. ‘On the house, of course.’

She had no idea why Charlie was here, but she wanted to keep her here, at least until she could put the pieces together. Charlie had marched in here like she was preparing for battle, despite not having any experience to give it anything but a little girl’s pretend facade. What did she think Lord Sinuous had done?

Charlie bit her lip. The last time Yvelle had seen her, she’d been a little girl, and she suspected she might as well not have aged at all from a Fallen’s perspective. If she wanted to seem mature and in control of things, she should have a drink. But she was terrible at holding her liquor, and…

‘If I try to do this drunk, it’ll undermine my whole argument,’ she said. ‘Do you… do you have anything non-alcoholic?’

Yve’s smile gentled. ‘Sure, honey. I wasn’t gonna give you any booze, anyway.’ She was not going to be the one to give the child booze. Leave that to some other unlucky creature. She started mixing a virgin margarita.

‘What argument would that be, hon?’ she asked, as she cut open a lemon from Sin’s gardens and juiced it. Her place was one of the only that stocked fresh fruit.

Charlie’s gaze flicked to the TV. ‘You saw my announcement, right?’ She was proud of herself for not faltering, even as her mind was suddenly filled with Katie Killjoy’s sneering.

‘I did,’ Yve said, ‘That was a nice little song. A little desperate, but nice.’ Yve believed in gentleness, but she was a demon. She added a bit of fine sugar to the cocktail shaker, and a scoop of ice.

‘That’s the best thing anyone’s said about it so far,’ Charlie said, before she could stop herself. ‘And I _am _a little desperate. I want this to work, Yvelle.’ She leaned forward, her eyes earnest. ‘I want to make a difference.

‘Anyway!’ She gave herself a businesslike little shake. ‘Even though there was the whole turf war thing, Angel Dust was still doing really well starting out on his path to being better, but today he came in all…’ Charlie pulled a face and wobbled her whole upper body from side to side. ‘You know… and he said Lord Sinuous attacked him!’

Yve, like Edgar, knew when discretion was the better part of self-preservation, and only listened.

‘I see,’ she said, supportive and neutral. ‘Well,’ she cocked her head, and listened for a moment, ‘he should be done soon. In the meantime, here.’ She had poured the contents of the shaker over some shaved ice in a cocktail glass rimmed with salt, and speared a marischino cherry with an umbrella pick, putting it in the drink. ‘Enjoy, honey. That’s a virgin margarita.’

‘You can tell it’s a virgin because it still has a cherry!’ Charlie volunteered, propping her elbow on the bar and grinning too widely. ‘Eh? Eh?’ _I can be in places like this, I can fit in here…_

Yve laughed, ruffling Charlie’s hair affectionately. ‘You’re so cute!’

The elevator dinged, and Yvelle knew who it was before the doors opened, letting out a very off-balance demon Charlie almost remembered the name of, who staggered toward the bar, holding onto it for dear life. His heart-shaped sunglasses were askew, and his coat hanging off one shoulder, clothes seeming to have been put on in a hurry in the dark. He didn’t say anything, just went face-down onto the bar.

‘Ya want me ta call yer car, _Mistah _Valentino?’ Yve’s voice went hard and cynical in a minute, and she didn’t offer him a drink. She didn’t want him to stay.

Charlie glowered at his barely-upright form, taking what she considered to be a genteel sip from her drink and turning her nose up.

‘Well, if you’re checking out in a state like that, I guess I don’t have to worry,’ she said. She’d heard Angel complaining about Valentino, and had been worried that he would pose a threat not only to Angel’s continued participation, but also to the likelihood of others coming to the hotel. From what Angel and, later, Vaggie had said, Valentino’s business model relied heavily on people being too scared and miserable to make changes to their afterlives.

‘Idunno what the _fuck _yer talkin about, but fuck you too, bitch,’ Valentino said, his breathless and woozy tones making it sound more pathetic than intimidating.

He’d gone in to demand Sin do something about Angel, to appeal to him about Angel’s use to both of them; and, somehow, it had careened out of his control immediately, and he’d found out just how futile it was to think that, just because he had a bunch of power, he was somehow _equal _to Lord Sinuous. In that “meeting”, Valentino had gotten closer to true Death than he’d ever thought he’d get again, and was shaken despite it all.

The elevator dinged, and he was suddenly able to walk again, fear motivating him to leave the lobby before those doors fully opened.

Lord Sin came in after that, the soft sursurration of his scales on the carpet a surprisingly pleasant sound, looking oh-so-poised in his understated suit, and smiling softly as he slithered up to the bar. ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘the princccessss, herssself. How are you, my dear?’

_Royally cheesed off,_ Charlie almost said, and then remembered she had to conduct herself with poise. She thought of how badly off Angel had been, and called back the righteous indignation she’d started out with. ‘All the worse for your activities, Lord Sinuous.’

Was he bigger than she remembered? He was really… really big….

That gave him some pause for curiosity. ‘Oh?’ he said, not exactly _disarmed_ (you could never disarm a viper) but certainly _curious._ ‘How ssso, your Royal Lownessss?’

Yve listened keenly, even as she mixed him his favourite new drink—a Jack Rose, using the brand-new Applejack he’d perfected only a month previous.

‘I didn’t expect you to feel guilty, but you’ve got a lot of nerve playing innocent,’ Charlie spat, glaring. ‘You know perfectly well what you did.’

Lord Sin was too old to fall for that trick. He’d invented it. ‘Oh, but don’t you want to really work up to a lathhher, Your Lownessss?’ he asked, ‘Put me in my placcce?’

He had an inkling this was, like the rest of the day had been, all about Angel Dust. What a delicious boy, such star power! Such charisma!

‘Your place is in your garden,’ Charlie said, getting up off her bar stool to better confront him, ‘and what I want is for you to stop attacking my patients! Patrons. Patrents? The people at the Happy Hotel!’

Attacking? Sin instantly saw what Angel had done, and smiled widely. ‘Your hotel is bad for businessss, my dear. Nothing persssonal—and nothing permanent,’ he assured her. ‘But I am ssso sssorry for losing my_ temper._ He can be sssuch a little sssassss mouth, sssometimesss.’

Yve was impressed, Sin was really getting into this; he should dial it back before she—well, wait, the kid was thicker than peanut butter, maybe he was doing just fine.

‘He can,’ Charlie admitted, unable to argue with that, and not having actually expected an apology. She felt a little more of her argument being pulled out from under her, and tried to yank it back. ‘But the last thing Angel needs right now is another addiction, and you still didn’t have to bite him. What could he have said while he was just out walking?’

‘Plenty,’ Yve said, ‘you ever been in the room with him?’

Lord Sinuous didn’t begrudge Charlie. ‘I’m not a man to crossss,’ he said, thinking thristily of the next time he might fuck his little movie star. Well, perhaps not _his; _but certainly no more Valentino’s, now Angel belonged to… well, Sin thought, he belonged to _Charlie_, now, didn’t he? Oh, my….

Charlie eyed him sidelong. ‘I don’t think you exactly have to worry about your reputation.’

‘Well, thhhen would you believe me if I sssaid I did it jussst becaussse?’ he asked, leaning close and flashing his fangs, looming like he was thinking of biting her, mouth lighting up UV-bright as eldritch symbols older than Man burst to life all over him. Charlie had never gotten the hang of that particular bit of psychotropic weather.

His shadow enveloped her, and Charlie swallowed against a mouth gone dry as bone. The faint lingering taste of citrus only seemed to mock her. After longer than she wanted, she squeaked out, ‘…Yes.’

‘Then why aren’t you _running?’ _he hissed, flashing his eyes.

.oOx.

_‘AllthingsconsideredIthinkthatwentwell!’_ Charlie gasped out, bolting into the lobby of the Hazbin like an entire extermination team was after her personally and slamming the door behind her so hard that the stained glass rattled.

‘Yeah, that’s about how it always goes with him,’ Husk said, looking up—briefly—from the comic book he was reading. ‘Alastor’s still upstairs with _loverboy,’_ he said, ‘Dunno where the fuck that girlfriend of yours is, but I don’t really care, either.’ He turned a page.

‘Wow,’ Charlie said, straightening up once her chest had stopped heaving. ‘That’s a long bath.’ She glanced over to the stairs. ‘I should probably go check on them… but all I really want to do right now is cuddle with Vaggie and watch a movie. I think I’ve earned that, don’t you? I do,’ she said firmly, before Husk could answer (which was probably for the best). ‘Let me know if any new guests show up.’

‘Sure, yeah,’ Husk said, not looking up, and certainly not letting on that he was jealous everyone was practically partnered up, and all that was left was that weird little bug, Niffty. He reached for a new cigarette, glad nobody had told him to quit smoking, yet, and chain-lit off the stub of the last one, before dropping it into the ashtray.


	5. Lessons And A Bargain Struck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel introduces Alastor to the basics of his genitalia, sex toys, and kink's power dynamic—then offers up a kink he thinks Alastor might like to try....

Angel was currently on the bed, naked and just about dry from the bath, having the most fun he’d had in years.

‘So this here,’ he said, pulling the foreskin back just how he liked. ‘Is called a clit; but I call mine a cock, see, because I’m a guy and all. Same thing anyway,’ he added, ‘And this is the foreskin, and you always stroke_ over_ the foreskin.’

He almost added _unless your aim is to torture someone _but realised, just in time, he should not say that kind of thing to a sadistic and completely amoral being like _Alastor_. It didn’t entirely save him. Alastor peered down, his expression as inscrutably, aggressively jovial as always, and then looked back at Angel’s face.

‘What happens if you _don’t?’_

He was familiar with the broad strokes of intimate anatomy—he had had to _discover_ that sex held no appeal for him, after all; and, anyway, once you dismembered enough corpses, some amount of education was unavoidable—but he found Angel’s assumption that it was all a closed book to him too entertaining.

‘Ya get kicked in the teeth, is what,’ Angel said, with shades of warning in his voice—though it was, broadly, true. ‘Unless you’re doin’ it with your _tongue_—’ he’d learnt by now that Alastor was a neat freak, and those usually recoiled at anything to do with oral. ‘—anyway,’ he finished, with some flare.

He dipped one of his lower hands down to feel how wet he was from all this, and smiled. ‘And if _this _is all wet, then _you’re _not.’ He snickered to himself, not yet used to the fact that he was around someone who might get that little joke, the way most of Angel’s costars and coworkers and even quick johns didn’t.

But _Alastor_ got the joke. The Radio Demon’s laughter wasn’t as unnerving this time, but maybe Angel was just getting desensitised to it.

‘Well said! Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but that would be the cue to insert something, wouldn’t it?’ He gestured with one long hand. ‘I’d like to do the best I can, in case there’s a quiz later.’

‘Not always,’ Angel said, but there was a genuine smile on his face—and in his voice. ‘Sometimes it’s nicer the longer you wait on that—it’s _usually _nicer, matter of fact.’

He said that aside with the same cynical exasperation he said all the asides, which was starting to form a _very_ clear picture of what he usually had to put up with at work.

‘Okay, so basics down, lemme show you the most basic pieces of my toybox….’

He got up and went over to his steamer, which he’d been careful to not fully unpack. He shifted around a few things and got the false bottom open, getting out his vibrator and his least scary-looking dildo. It was a simple glass one, easy to clean—and easy to pass off as some kind of sculpture to innocent _kids _that ran hotels, that might come snoopin’ around, owing to its abstract shape.

‘This is a dildo, this is vibrator. An’ _this _vibrator is the _quality _kind. Five speeds, five intensities.’ He couldn’t help the slightly maniacal grin as he said it.

‘They’ve changed those up since last I saw them.’ The grin was echoed and magnified on Alastor’s face as he held out a hand. ‘Might I take a gander?’

‘Sure, it’s clean—and it’s _lab glass,_ I think that means it’s… extra clean? Anyway, I wash my toys after I use ‘em, I’m not _that _kind of filthy whore.’ A grin. ‘I’m the _other_ kind.’

This toy looked… sort of like a sculpture of a horn, or maybe a very _artistic_ interpretation of a tentacle. It was odd, but not immediately sexual. Possibly that was the whole point, so one could hide it in plain sight. The vibrating toy had no immediately visible buttons, but these things might be remote-controlled, these days, or simply have… ah, there it was, a small raised bump at the base, the barest suggestion of a pair of buttons.

Alastor ignored the dildo after cursory glance, cupping the vibrator in his hands and scrutinising it closely, turning it around to examine it from different angles. His eyes and grin flickered for just a moment, and Angel felt more than heard a faint buzzing sound as Alastor shifted the toy to one hand and snapped the fingers of the other.

‘There!’ he said, handing it back. ‘You’ve got yourself a few more than just _five _options now.’

Angel carefully set the vibrator down faaaar away from himself, looking at it like it might explode at any minute. ‘Ooookay. And I’m neeeever putting that near my cock again. No more modifying my toys, Al. Please,’ he added, because he was trying to be nice, and Alastor didn’t really seem to be the type to understand the difference between a friendly ‘go fuck yourself’ and an unfriendly ‘go _fuck _yourself’.

Alastor’s smile dimmed, which was to say the light behind it went out. ‘You don’t like it?’

He loved his reputation, which had after all come, it seemed to him, with remarkably little effort, but it did get tiring for everyone to think he had nothing on his mind but carnage. He was a man of diverse interests, always had been. He’d just jazzed the vibrator up a little bit, and he’d thought it would be exciting for them both to discover what that actually meant. He hadn’t done anything cheeky like make one of the settings Angel’s resonant frequency.

Not on _purpose,_ anyway.

‘I mean,’ Angel began, ‘I would like it if I could believe all you did was give ‘er a few new settings, but I don’t, because frankly, you still scare me. But hey, here I am, still naked and aroused, so let me have just a _little _self-preservation instincts, wouldja?’ He—gently—took the dildo back. ‘Look, I… I don’t trust you enough to have you messin’ around with shit that I put near my business, okay? Not yet, anyway.’ he tried to be gentle, but firm… and smile. Right, smile. Remember to smile. Big smile, like you mean it.

‘Enough? Where, exactly, my absolutely spifflicated spider, did you get the notion it was a good idea to trust me _at all?’_ He put only the barest amount of emphasis on the last words, so that the world only fuzzed out a little bit.

‘Is it a good idea to trust _anybody, _in Hell? But you gotta start somewhere, or ya go nuts.’ Angel huffed a sigh. ‘Now, are ya done bein’ philosophical? Ya got questions about all this so far? What?’

‘Well, it all seems fairly straightforward,’ Alastor said, busily brushing dust off his already immaculate lapel. ‘I’ve got more of a hankering to know what it’s the prerequisite for.’

Was Angel going to stretch this out into multiple instalments? He’d probably have to, if only because there was no way Charlie would leave them to their own devices indefinitely. Alastor wondered how long it was going to take to get to those promised _other things_.

‘You gotta know the basics, things get pretty weird and specific and, y’know, _I_ didn’t even know what stuff was called, when I showed up.’ He shrugged. ‘So, you know what a dildo does, right? The vibe… ah _damn it,_ that’s the only one I have here right now!’ he realised, pouting.

Carefully, he set the dildo down and picked up the vibrator, cautiously turning it on in his hand. It buzzed cheerfully at him, like normal. He slowly went through the settings, finding that, yes, there were about three more, all of them far more _powerful,_ and lower frequency, than should be possible. As to the speeds… it was hard to hang onto it on the highest one, which wasn’t higher frequency so much as more powerful, a chugging that would really get unbearable almost instantly.

Angel was game for _that._ He turned it off, looked at Alastor through his lashes. ‘Maybe you know more’n I gave you credit for.’

Alastor beamed at him. ‘I never correct people when they underestimate me. It ruins the surprise!’

Angel put a booted foot on Alastor’s thigh _very _gently, shoving him _very _slightly with it. ‘Fuck you,’ he said, and laughed. ‘You just sat there lettin’ me explain shit you already knew for, what, because it was funny?’

‘Now you’ve got it!’ Alastor gave him a brief round of applause. ‘I’d say you won a prize, but I already gave you one. I’ll let you in on a little secret, Angel Dust—I am a moth to a flame where entertainment is concerned. Case in point.’ He made a flourishing gesture at the room around them. ‘We are, however, approaching the outer limits of my understanding. So from here on out, I am your pupil.’

Speaking of pupils, Angel’s were still quite impressive, but he seemed back to his ordinary self. He must have had a lot of practice at this.

‘Well, lemme see, we’ve got shit-all to play with at the moment—I’ve got a whole trunk of toys back at the studio apartment, but for now… ehhhh…. I feel kinda like orgasm control is something you’d be into.’ He posed on the bed, putting up one shoulder and flashing his eyes. ‘Howboutit, mistah?’ He wanted to say _‘Daddy’_, but he didn’t want to move too fast (boy, he'd never had anybody his age in a while). He gave a huge smile, the movie-star kind that he knew Alastor would appreciate.

Alastor sat on the edge of the bed, crossing his legs, while he considered this. It didn’t completely remove that smile from his peripheral vision. Angel was good. ‘That does sound interesting. Is begging involved? I like begging.’

‘_Oh _yeah, begging is _definitely _involved. Now, about that… usually that kind of thing comes with, uh…’ he gesticulated, never having had the opportunity, or the need, to explain power dynamic before. It had become such an unspoken part of his trade. ‘You know, the person begging using words like “sir”, or “master”, or—my favourite_—”daddy”.’_

Alastor looked over his shoulder at Angel, which he did by turning his head almost completely around, owl-like. He wasn’t even trying to be unnerving—after this long, it just came naturally.

‘I _see,’_ he said. ‘I don’t know about you, but I don’t think we’re really at the “daddy” stage.’

Angel wanting to educate him was one thing; wanting to call him something that had, in Alastor’s day, been a fond term for a lover, was another. It wasn’t, Alastor was startled to realise, that he was horrified by the concept. It just seemed a little sudden. He couldn’t see it as casually as Angel seemed to.

‘I think I like “sir,” for now.’

Angel shrugged. ‘I don’t. We can stick to your full name, maybe.’ He raised a brow, surprised at the realisation of, ‘Somehow, that’s title enough, for a guy like you.’

Jesus, was he really negotiating _orgasm control_ with Alastor? He’d have blue balls for a _century_….

‘You know, we can make that work,’ Alastor said, pleased. He leaned back and put a finger under Angel’s chin. ‘Why don’t you try it out?’

Angel shivered at the touch; just like he thought, Alastor was a natural at this kind of thing. Maybe, if Angel could get him to figure out what flavour of kink he liked, it would help with the destructive impulses.

Yeah, altruism was totally why he was wetter than a fucking gin joint right now. He looked Alastor straight in the eyes.

‘No, first, we learn about—and agree to—a little somethin’ we in the biz call “safe words”. This kinda game gets real dicey, you know? Beggin to stop when ya don’t mean it, an’ all. So, insteada “no” or “stop”, we use a different word. I usually like “phone case”. Easy to say, not likely to come up otherwise. If I say “phone case”, that’s your cue to actually stop whatevah yer doin’, and ask if I’m okay.’

He was actually going to do this, he thought giddily; but, if he was, he was doing it _right._ Whenever Valentino was involved, Angel couldn’t make the rules; but whenever Val _wasn’t_ around, Angel _could—_and Angel _liked_ safety rules.

‘Phone case,’ Alastor repeated. ‘Phone case, phone case, phone case… all right, I’ve got it out of my system.’ He was fully aware he was being irreverent, but he needed a moment to process what he’d just been told. _No_ and _stop_ were words he rarely listened to in any case, though admittedly not in sexual contexts, since he never got involved in those. That wasn’t the issue. It was that Angel expected the assurance that Alastor would check on his well-being, and not push him past the breaking point. When had Alastor ever given the impression that he wouldn’t do that just to see what happened?

This would be over, for one thing, if he ignored the safe word. That was what would happen. And Alastor didn’t want to cut this new game off at the knees before it had really begun.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll abide by those terms.’ He offered a hand for Angel to shake.


	6. A Bargain Made And Lessons Learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastor's first lesson.

Angel looked at it, and took the hand.

‘Thank you. Now,’ he said, putting Alastor’s hand back under his chin, and smiling with a wink, putting the vibrator in Alastor’s other hand. ‘Let’s start out slow, since yer new at this, and I’ll make sure to give you loooots of feedback, okay?’

He was aware that Alastor might be nervous. Sex was messy, and _good _sex was _very_ messy. Angel never held back, and was very comfortable with bodily fluids and everything else. Alastor probably wasn’t, and so they needed to go slow.

Fuck, Angel hadn’t been able to _teach_ someone how to Dom him before. This was already a great day, and only getting better….

‘Don’t tell my microphone,’ Alastor said, leaning in conspiratorially, ‘but this might be the first time I’ll actually _like_ feedback!’

Angel laughed. This was going to be fun, if Alastor was the kind of partner that could make him laugh while still staying aroused. He liked that hand under his chin, though. He liked that too much to move, for the moment.

Having already gotten a feel for it earlier, Alastor turned on the vibrator one-handed, and made sure it was on the lowest setting, before making a few select adjustments to his gloves. He paused a moment, looking at Angel spread out before him. He felt a kind of inquisitive anticipation—but his only real _desire _was to see what would happen next. That was good enough, right?

Angel didn’t have a navel anymore; or, if he did, it wasn’t visible. Alastor took his best guess at where it might have been as he lowered the vibrator, running it slowly downwards from that point and stopping just above Angel’s cock, watching avidly as the other demon shivered.

‘Now what?’

Angel bit his lip, stifling a moan. ‘Hhhnnnnnnow you—oh _hell_—just keep going….’ He lay back on the bed, opening his legs and bracing one high heel on the coverlet, carefully moving the other one over Alastor, bracing it on the other side of him.

‘Fuck—_fuck_—that’s so good…’ Angel slammed his head back into the bed, wanting to squirm and yet not wanting to move a muscle. Such was the fucking curse of vibrators.

‘Really?’ Alastor said, with something that could potentially have passed for innocence in bad lighting. ‘Already? So then what do you think of’—he drew the vibrator down to Angel’s cock, careful to move it down over the foreskin, as he’d been told—_’this?’_

Angel screamed, upper arms going up to grab the hair at the back of his head (and frame his face, he had training even when he wasn’t being filmed), the other two pairs digging claws into the bed as he trembled, ‘Alastor! Fuck! Fuck! If you wanna control the orgasm you gotta stop before I—I—!’

Alastor took it away just in time, his confusion now genuine. ‘But this is the lowest setting!’

Angel was panting. ‘Vibes just do that to me. I’m easy like that.’ He gave a little laugh, feeling that disappointment-not-disappointment at the arousal slowly dialling back down.

‘So,’ he said, when he could speak again, ‘there’s two kinds of orgasm control. There’s playin’ with someone and workin’ ‘em up to almost and then stopping and lettin’ ‘em back down over an’ over, until they’re so desperate for it they’re beggin’ just how ya like; and then there’s givin’ someone so many orgasms over an’ over they get desperate and beg ya ta _stop_. You can mix an’ match ‘em too, if ya want.’

Angel finally managed to prop himself up a little, canting his head at Alastor. ‘Which one ya wanna try first? It’s a little easier to do the second one, with a guy as sensitive as me.’

There was no question, in Angel’s mind, that Alastor would want to try both, eventually. He was so far showing himself to be curious, and Angel liked curious partners.

Alastor tapped his chin thoughtfully. ‘Well, I was taking a stab at the first version, apparently, but it might help to have a demonstration of just how much it takes to push you off that edge.’ His grin sharpened. ‘Then I’ll know better how to leave you hanging on by your fingernails.’

Angel beamed. ‘Atta boy! That’s the spirit! Ooh,’ he noised, as something exciting occurred to him, ‘Just so ya know, ya can tell me to tense, and see how that works as a tool. There’s also certain spots where, if ya put the vibe there, I’ll tense without being able to control it.’

Angel was all for telling partners what they had to work with, and he was eager to see Alastor succeed. Quite possibly, this might have been the first time he was with a partner that really electrified him, body and everything else. Angel couldn’t _remember _the last time he’d been so excited about something, or someone. If he hadn’t been high, he might’ve ruined it with cynicism. But he was high as _balls,_ so he was just having a great time.

‘Ooh! I’d love to find those.’ Alastor looked positively gleeful, an expression that most denizens of Hell thought was best viewed from under a rock several hundred miles away. ‘And tensing will… make things worse?’ There was unmistakable hope in his words.

‘It moves things around—but, yeah, generally it makes things more… _intense_. And it’s helpful to ask me how close I am, so ya know whether ya wanna stop, or keep goin’.’

This was fun, and he hadn’t even gotten to the actual _doing,_ yet! When had he ever had someone listen to Angel talk shop for this long?

‘And if you just make inarticulate noises, it’s at my… _discretion?’_ Alastor felt as though he was finally getting into the swing of things. He’d never had someone _want _him to be in this position, before.

‘That’s when you ask me if I need my safe word,’ Angel gave a serious answer, because it was a serious question. Being down here as long as he had, he knew exactly what was consensual and what wasn’t; and, whenever he _could_ control it, Angel wasn’t going to have or do anything without consent. Angel was not having any pupil of _his_ learning bad habits.

‘Understood!’ Alastor said cheerfully. ‘With that in mind, shall we see how many orgasms are behind door number two?’

Game shows were popular in Hell, if frequently short-lived, and were something of a vice of Alastor’s. He’d axed a few of them just by showing up in the studio audience. It was exasperating, really; everyone was always quaking in terror of him repeating his inaugural performance, but they didn’t want to support his hobbies.

At least, he thought as he lowered the vibrator back to Angel’s mons, he’d found another way to have fun.

Angel laughed in delight; maybe _that _was the secret—maybe Alastor needed sex to be a _game_. Well, it _was_ a game, but _Alastor_ hadn’t ever learned any of the rules, had he? Now he knew only a few, and he was already looking so _jazzed._

Angel bit his lip in anticipation, a high whine starting somewhere in his throat, as he watched the vibrator’s progress. His cunt twitched, unable to help trying to get closer even though he knew the vibe would slam him down onto the bed and make him scream again.

Alastor paused, the vibrator held just above where things would get really interesting, and leaned in closer, cupping his free hand to his ear. ‘Now that’s a new frequency! It sounds good on you.’ He inched the vibrator just a little further. ‘But I’ll be honest, I liked the screaming better.’

Angel groaned. ‘Alastor_, pleeease…’_ Fuck, this was already fantastic. It had been a while since Angel had a talkative Dom. He loved Alastor’s patter, that radio lilt was so familiar—and so _gorgeous_….

Alastor dragged the tension out a few moments more, making incremental adjustments to the angle of the vibrator and muttering to himself, savouring the way Angel’s plea continued, the last note in _please_ held until it almost lost meaning, just a needy whine.

Angel made sure to whimper, and whine, and, ‘Alastor, pleeeeeease, please, _pleeeeaseyou’reso**mean**!’_ he sobbed a little at the last, upper hands thrown back and fisting his damp hair, middle pair playing with his tits, and the lower pair still maintaining a death-grip on the bedclothes.

This was amazing, the Radio Demon was a _natural_….

‘I am _very _mean!’ Alastor agreed, static crackling around the words, his power rising close to the surface unbidden, surging with how purely giddy he felt. ‘I put a lot of work into it, I’m so glad you’ve noticed!’

Finally, with all the delicacy of a chef placing a garnish on an elaborately constructed meal, Alastor touched the vibrator to Angel’s cock…. and Angel was _empty._

Angel’s scream turned into a wail, his heels piercing the coverlet. ‘No, no, no Iwannabe_full_Alastor_plea_—’ he cut off into a scream as he came, the best ruined orgasm he’d had in a while, and actually let himself _cry_.

Alastor’s impression of this kind of thing had always been that the whips and chains were but a brief intermission before the thrusting and grunting. It hadn’t been enough to make the whole business worth it. But Angel was right, there was so much _more._ Alastor had to admit he was enjoying himself, and enjoying Angel, who was seemingly straining the limits of how much noise he could make at once.

Angel kept coming, kept keening, and the glass on the bedside table cracked. It occurred to Alastor that, for the time being, this should probably remain a secret. He gestured with his free hand, and his cane appeared. He whispered a few words to the microphone, and outside the door, Angel’s screams of pleasure were replaced by a loop of loud, somewhat static-fuzzed snoring. It wasn’t terribly convincing, but Alastor was a little _distracted_, by… he ran the vibrator in a little circle, but never actually raised it off of Angel, even as the spider’s hips bucked again and again.

‘You want to be full, eh? Isn’t being full of orgasms enough? I don’t foresee you running dry any time soon…’

Angel was lost, completely, the venom and Alastor combining… and he was definitely blowing out his pipes… but it was so _good_, so _much_, and he lost control, not sure where his feet would hit but unable to keep from kicking, his hips bucking, hands groping frantically for the dildo, desperate to be _full_….

Leaning this way and that to avoid the incoming boots, Alastor watched in fascination as Angel scrabbled around. It took him a moment to figure out what the flurry of motion was for, but once it clicked he reached out… and pushed the dildo just beyond Angel’s grasp, so that Angel could only brush it with his fingertips.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘this seems to be one protracted orgasm, so I think you’re due for some more.’

Angel’s whimper was raspy this time, and he squirmed, trying to escape—and wondering just what Alastor would think to do about it. He hadn’t, after all, used the safe word.

‘No, no please… no more… I can’t…’

And for all that Alastor was dangerous, Angel wasn’t afraid of him. It wasn’t the drugs, either—Angel felt himself a pretty good judge of who was really gonna hurt him, by now. Alastor didn’t fit into the same category as Valentino, or any of Val’s goons. Alastor was dangerous, the way a wild animal was dangerous; but he wasn’t cruel—well, not in the way that _mattered_.

_‘Can’t you?’_ Red glyphs flared into being before Angel’s eyes, swirling in the air, drawing his attention for just an instant, before smaller versions of the tentacles that had thrashed Sir Pentious curled up from the bedframe and locked themselves around all six of Angel’s wrists. Two more aimed for his ankles, then paused in mid-grab, swelled, lengthened, and wrapped around his thighs, pulling them apart.

Alastor’s eyes were crimson-bright and flickering, his grin huge as he held up the dildo, twirling it by the little curve at the narrow end. ‘Did you want this, instead?’

Angel panted, squirming against the tentacles mostly to feel the surety that they were holding him fast. His eyes were glued on the dildo, and he knew he looked like the thirsty slut he was. This was so much _fun._

‘Y-yes…’ he said, voice completely wrecked, a smoked rasp of a thing. ‘Yes, _please,_ Alastor. Please, please, I promise I’ll be good….’ Begging was so easy, the words falling naturally, the patter and the promises, the rhythm of the song as familiar as a lullaby.

There were tears streaking his cheeks, and his cunt was dripping, overwhelmed and yet still starved for more, for that phallic piece of glass twirling around Alastor’s long, gloved finger. Angel couldn’t take his eyes off it.

_‘Please,_ Alastor…’ he said, breathless, throat dry and sore from screaming.

‘Mm, but what does being good _entail?’_ Alastor’s eyes widened playfully. ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite know why I should want that! Not when you’re so much fun like _this!’_

Despite everything, Angel laughed, and it was exactly what he wanted, just then. He batted his eyelashes,

‘Anything you want it to entail, sweetheart,’ he said, purring the best he could with a ruined voice. For someone who was currently tied up in numerous eldritch tentacles, he managed to smoulder pretty well.

‘I’ll have to deliberate that! After all, you might not have introduced me to what I want yet. Perhaps that means we should _speed things along.’_ And Alastor thumbed the vibrator up to the next setting.

_‘Oh fuck,’ _came Angel’s small raspy squeak, eyes wide. ‘No, nonono _please_…’ he made his breaths shallow, enjoying the delicious anticipation…. The look on Alastor’s face was so gorgeously _wicked,_ fuck, how could one person have so many _tones_ of smile?

Alastor was making circles again, changing up how much pressure he was applying, but the vibrator buzzed mercilessly on. What a lovely, compact little thing it was! A far cry from the cumbersome devices of his mortal life! His smile gleamed, throwing back the red light from his eyes.

‘Please _what?’_

Angel’s voice was burnt out, but he could still talk. _‘Please,_ Alastor, fill me up with _somethin’!’_ He tossed his head, since he couldn’t struggle much against the tentacles. ‘Ff_fuck_, I’m dyin, Alastor, _please!_ A-ain’t I been good so far? _Hnnnn?’_

‘I’m still unclear on what the requirements are, but I suppose you haven’t been _bad…_’ Alastor moved the vibrator up a little, shifting the dildo in his other hand until he had a proper grip on it. ‘And there’s no reason I can’t subject you to both at once, is there?’

Angel made a noise that was pure unadulterated want, hearing that, his tongue practically hanging out. ‘Pleaseplease**_please_**, Alastor…!’

The only bad part was he kept catching himself before saying ‘Daddy’. He wanted _so badly_ to say that; but even high on drugs and lust, he remembered the rules, took pride in the trust a partner placed in him by saying what they didn’t like. And he didn’t want to give Alastor a reason to break any of _his_, either.

Alastor very much liked the sound of his name like that, gasped out raw, abraded by pleasure that was indistinguishable from desperation. It was enough, he decided, to sway him.

‘Oh, very well,’ he said, and handed off the dildo to another tentacle that obligingly reared up. Keeping the vibrator where it was, he watched with an indulgent air as the tentacle pushed just a head’s worth of the glass into Angel. ‘How’s that?’

Angel noised in mixed relief and frustration. _‘Morrrrrre,’_ he scraped the word out from the bottom of his register, shredding it on desperation.

He got another inch, if that. Alastor’s grin widened, which shouldn’t have been possible. ‘Better?’

‘Phone case,’ Angel said, realising he needed to ask if Alastor was okay with this.

‘Hey, you good with fuckin me with that? You aren’t, you know, uncomfortable or anything?’ Because all he really knew was that Alastor wasn’t fucking anybody, never had; and he wasn’t sure _why_, exactly, so he had no idea what the limits were.

Alastor nodded at the tentacle, which had gone perfectly still. ‘I found a solution,’ he said, but his smile had diminished. ‘For some reason passing understanding, I’m fine using this’—he lifted the vibrator, which he had withdrawn when Angel used the safe word—’but actually, well, penetrating you _myself,_ even with this helpful silica-based substitute, is…’ He gestured, and Angel was treated to the extremely rare spectacle of the Radio Demon being lost for words. ‘But I wanted to see how you would react to it, so I improvised.’ That smile was back again.

‘So you’re… you’re okay with the tentacle fuckin’ me with a toy?’ Angel needed it to be clear as crystal, or he wouldn’t play. He would _not _be party to rape-by-misunderstanding.

‘The tentacle, yes.’ Alastor paused. ‘Do _you_ like the tentacle?’

Angel beamed, and his voice was still a rasp, but there was enthusiasm there.

_‘Do_ I!’ he said, gold crown gleaming in the low light. ‘I wouldn’t say no to bein’ _fucked_ with the tentacle, no toy needed!’

This actually seemed to throw Alastor for a moment. ‘I didn’t think of that.’ He looked pensively at his handiwork. The tentacles rippled a little. ‘How about we continue with the toy for now, and I’ll file that idea away for later?’ He did want to do this again, and he was fairly sure Angel would find a way to incorporate his powers into future lessons. ‘Unless…’ His eyes burned just a little brighter, and a smaller tendril budded off the tentacle’s base, this one narrower than a finger at the tip and glistening like an oil slick, curling until it was nudging at Angel’s ass.

Alastor cocked his head. ‘Am I doing this right?’

‘Oh you are… you are a _natural,_ Al,’ Angel managed, biting his lip and almost _drooling _with want. _Real_ tentacles were fairly rare, and Angel had a definite thing for them. He wondered if Al’s were as squishy as they felt on his wrists. There was strength there, that pure strength that was literally all muscle—but there was a squish factor too, that made Angel’s cunt twitch, as he imagined it inside….

‘Alastor, please fuck me,’ he said, tentative. ‘Please. Whenever you’re ready to go again, _please.’_

‘I suppose this isn’t much different than picking locks,’ Alastor mused, finally having the big tentacle push the dildo slowly and fully into Angel’s cunt, while the little one teased at his other entrance.

Angel sighed, letting out a noise that would have been a long, luxurious moan if his voice hadn’t been wrecked, wishing he could play with his tits.

‘Ohhhhh, Yes, Alastor, yes, yes, _yes,_ oh thank you, it’s _so **good…**_’ He was dizzy, smiling like an idiot he was sure, but oh, it felt so good, and everything was beautiful…

‘Though I’m not sure how much turning and fiddling there is,’ Alastor went on, ‘Do you like fiddling?’

‘Go for it, hot stuff.’

The tendril slipped into Angel and _wriggled,_ twisting and turning in ways a finger—well, a mortal finger, anyway—couldn’t have managed without breaking. At the same time, the big tentacle undulated, thrusting the dildo in a slow, somewhat uneven rhythm that was only sort of like being fucked with an actual cock.

Alastor was watching intently, the vibrator still held absently against Angel, his free hand moving like he was conducting an orchestra. His grin was narrowed in concentration, his power earthing itself in the faint sounds of interference fizzing and popping, a susurrus of low mumblings that might have been words.

‘I am,’ he said, ‘going for it.’

Angel was a lot more settled down, once he was full—but the one at the back entrance was still scrambling his brains a little.

‘Mmm, doin’ great, just get a little more rhythm, like we talked about…’ He was letting his eyes close almost all the way, slitted like a contented cat’s, his noises a little more silent now that his voice was shot, but a shattered squeak here, a sigh there.

‘Oh _fuck,_ Alastor…’ He could feel a very different orgasm building up, now.

‘That _is_ what we’re doing!’ Alastor couldn’t resist saying, even as he tapped a hoof against the floor, finding a beat and starting to move the tentacle in time to it. He was surprised to find that he liked seeing Angel luxuriating like this. He’d thought it wouldn’t be as interesting as having him writhe and beg; but Alastor had never given someone this much pleasure before. It wasn’t something he’d thought himself capable of; yet, here he was, a little practical instruction and he was off to the races!

His stay at the hotel was promising to be more eventful than he’d expected.

‘Mmm, yes… right… oh, oh _fuckpleasecanIcome?’_ Angel’s voice scraped the bottom of his register again, his breaths short, his body tensing around the toy and the smaller tentacle both, body pulling at the restraining ones as he got close.

He’d asked on purpose—no point in asking if you didn’t want to give the other person control….

‘Oh! Oh, yes, I get to decide! Hmmm, what should the verdict be? Really, I can see arguments for both sides, but you are somewhat time-sensitive, aren’t you? Let’s say yes, with a little caveat: don’t get used to it, old sport!’

Angel came with a low, rough-edged moan that cracked in several places, feeling a laugh bubble up from somewhere inside it, and flopping back down to the bed, still coming, the vibe not letting up; but Angel felt a lot better now, like he could take however much more Alastor wanted to dish out. However…

‘Phone case, sweetheart,’ he said, ‘I need some water, and you need the next lesson.’


	7. Aftercare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel teaches Alastor about aftercare, and receives his first permission to touch; Alastor makes his first mistake.

These days, aftercare wasn’t something Valentino encouraged (he called it ‘sissy bullshit’), and it certainly wasn’t something you got from johns; which was exactly why Alastor was getting a lesson in it, because it was important. Because Angel didn’t want even _one_ more demon walking around thinking it was ‘sissy bullshit’. Angel _liked_ aftercare, had liked it the minute he’d learned about it.

The tentacles withdrew and vanished, and Alastor turned off the vibrator, setting it on the bed near the dildo. He picked up the cracked glass from the side table and clicked his tongue, making it whole again, and disappeared into the bathroom to fill it. The water carried a faint whiff of brimstone, as it always did, but the glass was cool when Alastor put it into Angel’s hand.

Angel sighed, pushing himself up and drinking it, before looking at Alastor. ‘Thanks. So, this is your lesson in aftercare. Not that we’re done, but sometimes ya need ta call time and let everyone have a break to get some water, stretch, check up on each other, that kinda thing. So…’ he said, ‘How you doin? You having fun? You got questions, thoughts? What?’

Angel was not, by nature, a very _quiet_ presence, even when being receptive and welcoming, he still came off, to those not either from New York or other similar cultures, as pushy and overbearing. Angel had learned a long time ago that people could take it or leave it, and there were _still _people in the industry whose careers were dead on arrival because they didn’t understand this about Angel.

Alastor settled himself on the bed, studiously avoiding the wet spot Angel had made. ‘I’ve actually been having a grand old time!’ he said, ‘which is as much of a shock to me as it probably is to you! Paramount among my thoughts, however, is the desire to keep all this under wraps. I’m not ashamed of you, I simply don’t want others thinking they can waltz on in and take your place. Because…’ He actually glanced away. ‘I don’t believe I want to do this with anyone else, at least not at the moment.’

Angel let that have the silence it warranted, out of respect. He understood the nuance between shame and shyness, and was touched—and a little proud of himself—that Alastor was so attached to him. ‘Well, babe, no one _can _take my place. I’m the best,’ he said, winking.

He crawled over, grabbing one of the towels he’d immediately moved to the bedside table upon moving in to cover the wet spot, and sat down next to Alastor, reaching out a hand, slowly, to just barely touch Alastor’s shoulder; if Alastor tensed, he’d withdraw it, but he wanted to see if he could try. Angel was a very touchy person, by nature; and it wasn’t all sexual. He touched people’s shoulders, their arms, their hands…

‘But I’ll let this thing go slow, promise. As long as you don’t expect me to be exclusive, I’m good with buttonin’ my lip about this thing we got between us.’ He’d always found that calling it ‘thing’ kept most people happy.

Alastor did flinch, but after a moment he took Angel’s hand in his own. ‘I wouldn’t dream of limiting your, ah, distribution rights! I very much doubt either of us has the patience required to be devoted solely to one another! And, superlative as you are, I can’t be spending all my time in your boudoir!’

Superlative! That was the first time in a _while_ Angel had been called that! But was that a hint of self-deprecation, afterward? From _Alastor?_ That was interesting, Angel filed that away to specifically _not_ poke at, because it was dirty pool to use something you found out in bed against somebody like that. Angel did _not_ play dirty pool. Certainly not unless the other guy started it. Certainly not with someone he was supposed to be _teaching._ Angel had few morals, but when it came to introducing people to new sex things, he was as good as _gold._

‘Yeah, the girls would get suspish,’ he said, savouring the gentle contact between them. ‘So hey, uh… if ya want more lessons, ya needta do me a solid, and help me get my toybox in here.’ He stroked Alastor’s knuckles with his thumb, which had always been a kind of fidget he had, when holding hands with anybody.

Alastor wasn’t sure what to make of that little gesture. It was practically tender. He and Angel had a _thing? _He’d never had a thing with anyone before. He wasn’t in the business of… thinging.

‘I can think of a number of ways to acquire your chest of wonders!’ he said, chipper as always. ‘How soon did you want it?’

Angel thought about it, eyes on their joined hands. Now seemed as good a time as any, and the longer he waited, the more suspicious it would look. ‘We-ell,’ he said, ‘if you wanna accompany me to the Studio, I could get all the rest of my stuff….’

He tensed up involuntarily, thinking about going back to the Studio, to the site of all the… the stuff. The bad stuff. He didn’t like thinking about it more specifically than that.

This got him an honest-to-Satan chortle. ‘Of course I don’t want to do that! Is all your stuff located in your abode?’

‘My "abode" is _in_ the Studio, sweetcheeks,’ Angel said, experimenting with petnames to see how far he could push them. ‘And I didn’t exactly clean up before I checked in here.’

He’d not really planned to leave until he saw the hotel, talked to Vaggie and Charlie. He’d never been neat, and anyway, all his stuff was technically Valentino’s stuff, so it was, technically, stealing.

‘Not a problem!’ Alastor snapped his fingers, and the room was bathed in arterial-red light once again as the world stuttered and fragmented. When it calmed down, all of Angel’s possessions had appeared in a teetering pile that took up most of the room. Alastor patted Angel’s hand. ‘You can get to work on that cleaning now. Many hands make light work, after all!’

Angel stared at the mess, and then at Alastor, and then at Alastor’s mouth. ‘I… really wanna kiss you right now,’ he said, barely restraining himself from doing so.

It wouldn’t be a sexual kiss, it was simply the way Italians thanked people emphatically. But Alastor didn’t like being touched, and Angel would respect that, even if it felt like cutting out his own tongue—touch was such a huge part of how he expressed himself to other people.

‘To see how sweet my cheeks are, no doubt,’ Alastor said, with a broad wink. He cradled Angel’s chin with his free hand, leaning in towards Angel. ‘I’ll permit a petite peck in that direction.’

Having the advance warning helped, and he’d already been challenging a lot of assumptions. Still, he hoped it was evident he wasn’t going to be able to manage anything beyond that.

Angel went for his cheek, kissing it demurely. ‘It wasn’t gonna be that kinda kiss,’ he teased, hoping it would ingratiate him to have been the one to slow this down, this time. ‘I’m grateful, is what I mean by that,’ he said, quieter. ‘Just grateful.’

There was a little more of an edge to Alastor’s laugh this time. ‘I’ll be sure to remember that.’

What had Valentino done, that Angel was openly expressing gratitude for not having to deal with him? Alastor had briefly taken notice when the pimp gained the position of overlord, then promptly dismissed him as uninteresting. Though… hadn’t that happened in the wake of Alastor’s arrival? The Radio Demon had left a large number of vacancies among the upper echelons of Hell, and having had his fun, he hadn’t cared who filled them. Would Valentino have gotten where he was if Alastor hadn’t cleared his path? Perhaps it was time to stop discounting him just for being a small-minded flesh-peddler.

Angel closed up, scared. That phrase had been used against him so many times, why wouldn’t Alastor be the same? At least, he consoled himself, Alastor wouldn’t be interested in sex.

Or had Angel just blown that safety wide open? Fuck. He stood, going over to his stuff and starting to try and sort through it. He wasn’t a neat person ordinarily, but he was fastidious in where he put his mess. Mess hid things better than neatness. He felt, even through the venom, his shoulders tighten, that constricted feeling in his chest that showed up whenever he was angry and knew he couldn’t say boo about it.

Alastor watched, aware from the abruptness and sudden silence (was that part of why he found himself liking Angel, because the spider could match his gift for gab?) that something was wrong. He had been aiming for the ominous, because he’d wanted to remind Angel of who and what he was, that being indebted to him was dangerous. But he hadn’t intended anything quite like… like this.

Part of him wanted to make good his escape. Just as Alastor only minded touch that he didn’t initiate, he hated awkwardness that he didn’t cause. If he left now, though, whatever was the matter would probably fester, and poison future endeavours. It would hurt his and Angel’s Thing.

He summoned his cane so he could twirl it between his fingers.

‘I chose those words on a whim, you know,’ he said, eyes on his microphone. ‘I won’t use them again.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ Angel muttered, needing to say something angry, but knowing there was nothing he could say that was simultaneously subservient _and_ angry—the two contradicted.

‘Thanks for getting my stuff,’ sounded a lot less sincere, despite the increased articulation. Alastor had broken something, between them, with a single phrase.

He little knew how Valentino used the same words to constantly keep Angel in debt, which had to be paid off however Val saw fit.

Alastor huffed out a breath, trying to quell his irritation before it could take control. ‘I made a mistake,’ he said brusquely. ‘Even if I hardly know what it was.’

He drummed his fingers against his cane. ‘You corrected my little mishap with the vibrator, that was easy enough. But it seems I’m also learning _you, _Angel Dust, and I’m going to get some things wrong there, as well. Tell me how to iron out this particular wrinkle.’ He hesitated. ‘Please?’

Angel didn’t answer for a while, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a sigh. He didn’t look at Alastor. ‘It’s just somethin’ people say a lot, when they mean that later, you owe ‘em whatever they want, usually somethin’ that’s gonna eat atcha forever, because it’s somethin’ _they_ don’t wanna do, that _nobody’d _wanna do.’

Horrible memories tried to surge like nightmares to the surface, but he stubbornly held them down. He’d been trying to drown them for years.

It wasn’t only Valentino; people used it in the Families all the time, not that Angel had had any doings with organised crime in a while. It was, probably, what had landed him down here, though—he’d been a made man, which at the time had been a big deal, since he’d had a cunt in life as well as down here. The happiness of those memories helped him out again, letting him forget the more recent ones, letting him focus again.

_Tell me how to iron out this particular wrinkle._

That stopped him, but good; no one had _ever_ asked him that before, especially not with a _‘please’ _at the end. It was practically an apology; Angel wanted to push it, but he also didn’t.

‘Idunno, maybe kill Val or somethin’,’ he said, laughing a little, mostly to try and relax. It wasn’t exactly a _happy_ laugh, but a happy laugh might’ve been within spittin' distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> being a 'made man' means you've murdered someone for the Family. Only men did this, so Angel having been a made man in life was a way that his culture acknowledged to him that they saw him as male and not female (women weren't supposed to do murder and stuff).


	8. Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plotting, aftercare, and surprising tenderness for our boys.

‘Oh, is that all? You’ll be pleased to know I was already pondering that proposition! I haven’t done a show in such a _long_ time!’ Could it really be that easy?

Angel paused for thought. ‘Wait, really?’ he turned to look at Alastor. ‘You’d… you’d do that, for me?’ Al was moving a little fast, Angel thought; but, then again, maybe it was like the bullies that had called Angel a —— and beat him up at school, and how they’d seemed so scary to him, but to his cousin Dean, they were nothin’, and Dean had gone and scared the living shit out of them, and nobody had bothered Angel at school again.

Maybe Val seemed like a big, scary, tough guy to Angel; but maybe to somebody like Al, he was just a little fish, a nobody.

(Angel could only imagine what his cousin woulda said about Val. _‘What kinda yellow bird hits working girls and queers?’_ It made him smile.)

‘Well, if I’m laying all my cards on the table, it’s not _just_ for you. I see it more as correcting an oversight, and the ripple effects should be fascinating!’ Alastor’s own grin widened at seeing Angel’s. ‘…But that’s mostly to tell the press, if you know what I mean.’ There. He’d said it, sort of.

Valentino having hurt Angel _was _a factor in Alastor wanting to destroy him.

He’d never killed anyone for _that_ reason before.

Angel’s smile came back, like the dawn breaking.

‘Is it… listen, ya gotta stop sayin’ stuff like that, if ya don’t want me touchin’ you,’ he said, looking away from a different reason now, blushing and feeling that giddy energy he’d felt just moments ago, when Alastor had gotten all his stuff (How had he known which stuff was Angel’s, anyway?).

‘I’m aware of the hazard,’ Alastor said, ‘and I’m starting to think your proclivities are something of a different beast. If you say what you’d like to do, and ask permission, you might just have that opportunity every now and again.’

Angel came closer. ‘Well, I wanna take you by the shoulders an’ kiss both yer cheeks, an’ hug ya. That’s just how grateful I am. Idunno how else to say it.’

It was the first time he’d ever had to explain it, which meant it was the first time he’d ever put it into words. It made him realise it _was_ a word.

Alastor considered this. He was accustomed to cheek kisses as a greeting, but gestures, for him, were always accompaniments to speech; they couldn’t replace it. Anything was expressible in words if you worked at it hard enough (and if that failed there were always screams). Clearly it was not the same for Angel.

He propped his cane against the foot of the bed, wanting its presence too much to just vanish it, and held his arms out. ‘Then say it, or rather don’t. Just don’t squeeze me too hard.’

Angel did it slower than usual; he held Alastor’s shoulders, kissed both his cheeks, then hugged him good and tight. That done, he let go and felt a lot better. ‘Thanks, Alastor,’ he said, and felt like it was a little more sincere. ‘Means a lot. But uh… hey, ya can’t just kill him, problem solved. There’s the matter of who gets the Studio. Probably Vox,’ he muttered.

The other demon was in charge of broadcasting, and had always been pushing to own the big as well as the little screens. In some ways, it was a good thing Val owned the Studio, it was the last piece of media Vox _didn’t _control. And Vox was one of the creeps who always wanted Angel’s shoes off.

‘We’ll need to do some planning, then,’ Alastor said. ‘But that will give the old thinker some exercise. Nothing’s quite as much fun as malice aforethought!’

Angel’s smile got a shadow on it, ‘Yeah, and nothin’s betta than takin’ ova the other guy’s racket nice and neat.’

He could hardly believe this was happening. Here he was, thinking this hotel was gonna be the ruin of him, and now he was able to see himself bein’ the new owner of the Studio overnight! But… they had to be careful, and _precise_. Just killing Val wouldn’t do it, and Angel started pacing, arranging his stuff how he liked because having busy hands helped him think, and cleaning a gun or lighting a cigarette or pouring a drink weren’t options right now.

‘We gotta make sure the studio gets passed to me before we ice him,’ he said. It was weird, talking about demons like they could be killed—but if the Radio Demon could kill demons, then he _could,_ and Angel wasn’t going to doubt him. Maybe he’d gotten a weapon from Heaven or something….

Val didn’t exactly have a will to doctor, so what would happen if he died? Whoever everyone _decided_ was in charge would be—and Vox was going to have the goons to fight for it. Angel didn’t have any goons, just friends, mostly performers and makeup and hair guys, little people. Well and Cherri, the only female director they’d ever had, and a real bitch to work with, according to the higher ups.

Angel just knew she laughed a lot on set, and always talked with the performers to make sure everyone was having a good time. He liked her. It was why they were friends. He wanted her to come work for them, but Val thought girls couldn’t direct, and had only hired her because most of the lesbian stars only worked with her, and Val couldn’t stand the thought of indie studios making any money, so he’d buckled.

It had been the first time Angel had seen Val actually _give in_ to anybody. It was the first time he’d seen Hell have anything resembling a _union_. He’d wanted in on that, even though he was, by then, trapped by a contract he couldn’t get out of.

‘So, uh, my buddy Cherri Bomb’s a director, and I’m wonderin’… if I were in Val’s posish, first thing I’d do—after rewritin’ everyone’s contract—would be ta get her a piece’a the action.’

Angel was well-aware that Cherri might become an enemy if Angel suddenly became an overlord, and was terrified of losing her friendship. She just didn’t think the way he did, she was real young in that regard; but it was one of the reasons he liked her so much, in some ways.

And, hey, wasn’t she always telling him to not let Val treat him ‘like that’?

‘Are you suggesting she could be convinced to render us assistance?’ Alastor looked nonplussed—Angel was getting better at deciphering the many variations of smile.

Alastor wasn’t sure why else that would have been brought up; whatever Angel did once he attained the position was none of Alastor’s concern. Their budding association and the ramifications thereof were diverting enough, but what place did Alastor have in an adult film studio? He hadn’t even initially factored in Angel being the one to succeed Valentino, he just liked seeing who would scramble to fill a power vacuum. Contracts didn’t hold his interest unless he was the one making them.

‘Well, yeah, we need to build me a side before takin over, so it sticks,’ Angel said, then realised. ‘Do you… do you not think about that?’ It was more than a little terrifying, but it fit much better than thinking Alastor had some kind of _plan_.

‘About allies?’ The Radio Demon chuckled. ‘I’ve never needed them, so why should I bother?’

Angel raised a brow. ‘Pride goeth before a Fall,’ he quoted the old saying, as he tucked lingerie into a drawer. ‘Or, in other words, ya never need allies til yer lyin’ in yer own blood, pumped fulla lead, wishin’ ya had somebody ta call a doctor for ya.’

Allies were everything. You needed a to know a guy, you always needed to have somebody in the wings that could help you, or you were sunk. It was something Angel had learned, growing up in the world he had. Nobody was too powerful to need friends. Even the big bosses had friends.

‘And sometimes not even then,’ Alastor said, but very softly. He added, in his normal tones, ‘I didn’t expect you to be the one quoting Scripture at me, Angel Dust! That’s shocking enough that I’ll just have to take note. I’m no scholar, but the part about being “pumped fulla lead”’—he didn’t just repeat it, he _played Angel’s voice back to him_—‘must be in the Apocrypha.’

At least, he thought, Angel wasn’t planning on sitting back and having Alastor do all the work for him. That was gratifying.

Angel startled, turning at the sound of his own voice—he was used to it, he had to watch the dailies with everyone else—but hearing it when he hadn’t expected to be recorded was unnerving. Well, maybe he shouldn’t have been so surprised that the radio demon was recording at all times. ‘Aww,’ he teased, ‘I wanted to hear that big fancy voice’a yours try and say it.’

‘You want me to opine on the operation of a Chicago Organ Grinder? Your tastes certainly are eclectic!’ Alastor had a nagging suspicion that might have been more flirtation, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it. It was much easier to deflect and hide behind plausible deniability until he got the hang of things. Unless continuing to be “big and fancy” would titillate Angel by itself? That would be a nice bonus.

Angel laughed, shaking his head. ‘You’re a card, Al.’

He continued trying to sort out the jumble. Some of it was tidy—there was the special trunk Cherri had gotten for his toys, with the silk-lined compartments and the trays. Currently, Angel was picking up dildos—he had a lot of them—that weren’t in the trunk, and putting them on the bed. He needed to clean them, and he wished he had one of those fancy autoclave things like they had in the Studio. But plain soap and water was good enough, if you weren’t sharin’. Angel had a bad habit of not cleaning his toys until he used them next, rather than cleaning them right away.

Alastor’s eyes went progressively wider at each successive dildo. There was a frankly baffling array of colours, shapes, and textures, all of which could probably have been cast from various demons or someone’s overactive imagination (not that these two things were mutually exclusive).

‘And you’re sure those are all for the same purpose?’ He prodded one with the base of his cane. It wobbled at him.

Angel waved a hand at the cane as though to swat it, though he was too far away to actually reach it. It was more of a gesture.

‘Ey! Ey! Ey! Get away from those with that!’ The ‘th’ was abbreviated almost to a ‘d’, which was something that happened when Angel was either worked up or very relaxed.

‘And yes,’ he said, getting an idea and going into the bathroom, checking that the tub was clean. There was a bit of oil still, but he wiped it out with a spare towel (there were so many towels) and it would do. He tipped some of the detergent he used for cleaning toys into the tub and started the water, starting to go back and forth from the bed and dumping the silicone and softer toys into the water. The glass and metal ones he left on the bed, not wanting them to chip or break.

Fascinated, Alastor wandered into the bathroom and watched the water get displaced further and further.

‘Do you have a different one for each day of the year? Or are some of them for special occasions?’

Angel paused as he dumped the last load in, leaning on the edge of the tub and watching the water, stirring it with two of his right hands.

‘It depends on what kinda pleasure I want,’ he said, almost adding _‘goose’ _but then remembering Alastor was learning, and Angel needed to be softer with him than that. ‘Sometimes, I wanna big toy. Sometimes I don’t. Some toys are better with one hole, some are best with the other one.’ He reached into the water and pulled something out.

‘This one here’s actually beads,’ he said, holding up something that wasn’t exactly a string of beads, being all of a piece, but certainly looked like it might have been mimicking one, the ‘beads’ graduating from large to small as they went from the base to the tip. ‘That’s no good in the front entrance, but it’s a great one in the back.’

He put it back down, rooted around in the water for a different one. He held up a short, spade-shaped one. ‘This here is a plug.’ He put it back. ‘There’s a lotta different things you can do, lotta… whatchacallit… techniques? Yeah, techniques.’

‘And you’re really willing to while away the time teaching them to me?’ Alastor had no idea how long it might take for Angel to get bored of the whole enterprise; he honestly wasn’t even sure about himself. Just yesterday, he would have laughed off the very concept as easily as he had dismissed Angel’s initially propositioning him. Now, he _wanted _to find out what orifice the plug was supposed to stopper.

This uncertainty was a strange feeling to him, different from the electric joy of simply not knowing what was going to happen next. Alastor was so rarely uncertain about himself.

‘Wha—yeah, of course I am! This is my favourite thing in the world!’ Angel gave him a Look.

The eye on Alastor’s microphone opened and stared at him reproachfully. Alastor coughed, avoiding both its gaze and Angel’s, his smile broadening in self-defence. ‘Fantastic,’ he said. ‘Just…’ He recalled the phrasing Angel had used when teaching him about aftercare. ‘Just checking up.’

Angel’s smile was fond, a little warmer and sweeter than he usually let people see on him, as he watched Alastor be flustered at the attention.

‘Nobody shares much with ya, do they?’ he asked, softly as he could, as he grabbed a washcloth with his upper left hands, and dipped his four upper hands into the water, starting to gently scrub.

Alastor resisted the urge to pull back the curtain again, flex his powers to warn Angel off. Angel had been vulnerable with him. Could they really have a _Thing_ if Alastor wasn’t willing to reciprocate?

It wasn’t as though Angel could hurt him, anyway. Even if the spider went back on his word and did some kind of lurid exposé, there was a significant chance no one would believe him. “I Fucked The Radio Demon” had already had its turn as tabloid fodder, and when you got right down to it, Alastor reflected, none of the invented stories had been half so entertaining as what Angel had shown him.

He’d gone this far. He could be honest.

‘No. They don’t.’

‘Nobody really asks me to share anythin’ with ‘em either,’ Angel returned, wanting to show that he wasn’t going to push at it, that he’d just noticed and appreciated it in turn.

‘The hazards of a well-earned reputation,’ Alastor said, if anything more unsettled that Angel had just expressed some kind of kinship. No one had ever done that, either, unless you counted those who had boastfully claimed to be his equal or superior. And Alastor had made very sure they would no longer count. ‘At least we can commiserate!’

Angel smiled, eyes on his work. ‘Yeah,’ he said, almost to himself, ‘I like you too, ya big lug.’

Alastor had exceptionally keen hearing, but it took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, he almost dropped his cane, and had to improvise a stage-worthy bit of twirling to hide it. ‘I, I suppose I might be coming into possession of a certain—oh, _hell,’_ he said. ‘I like you too.’

Angel just smiled, resisting the urge to laugh with all his might, keeping his eyes down. He was… he was _happy._ He wasn’t used to that. He felt safe, he felt _happy_, and thank fuck for Sin’s venom taking the edge off his usual habit of tensing up, not trusting happiness, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

None of that feeling plagued him now, he was just…

Happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'bird' is old slang for a person. 
> 
> 'yellow' refers to cowardice. 
> 
> 'working girls' is old slang for sex workers.
> 
> I am _not_ in any way kinkshaming foot fetishists; Vox is predatorily sexual and doesn't care about consent or the comfort of his victims. _That_ is the creepy part, not the fetish itself.
> 
> And no, don't bother asking what slur goes in the dashes, I am not going to tell you if you don't know.


	9. On The Radio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The ripper kills in sounders of three or four in quick order. Do you know why? I know why.... Because if he waits too long, then the meat spoils." - Will Graham, Bryan Fuller's Hannibal_

Alastor headed back downstairs in a very odd frame of mind. He felt connected and disconnected at once, as though someone had unplugged all his wires and put them back in a different order. He needed some time to himself, to lay everything out and study it until it made sense. He needed a _narrative._

What he got, halfway down the staircase, was Charlie.

‘How’s Angel is he okay?’ she said, all in a rush. Charlie felt incredibly guilty for not being able to even warn Lord Sinuous off Angel, and while Vaggie had tried to comfort her, Charlie still felt horribly _responsible_ for the spider.

Despite Alastor not having asked for them, memories of Angel gasping out variations on a medley of _please,_ and _Alastor,_ and _fuck_ helpfully presented themselves. There was a little burst of static as he cleared his throat.

‘In my admittedly amateur estimation, he should make a full recovery! The venom really just seems to make him more…’ _Don’t say “open.”_ He settled on, ‘relaxed. I can’t speak for the aftereffects, of course! He may need some time to sleep those off!’ Time in which Angel could restore all those toys to their hiding place.

Charlie heaved a little sigh. ‘I tried to talk to Lord Sinuous, but he’s… he didn’t listen,’ she said, wilting. Nobody ever listened to her, and why would her dad’s friends listen to his kid?

Alastor chucked her under the chin. ‘My dear, that’s just how the Fallen are, I’m afraid! Persisting is the best thing you can do! You’ll only prove him right if you give up now!’

Charlie smiled, but it fell almost audibly from her face as she realised just who was giving her encouragement.

‘Uh… so you… you took care of Angel out of the goodness of your heart?’ she asked, trying to be a little more like Vaggie, a little less trusting.

‘That would be quite a feat for something that doesn’t exist!’ Alastor gave her one of his toothiest grins. ‘I’m sorry to say you’re not that effective! I simply needed something to amuse myself in the interim, and addled Angel fit the bill!’ And that had been his rationale at the beginning, anyway.

Charlie frowned deeper. ‘You didn’t… _take advantage_ of him, did you?’ Charlie had met Angel when he’d been scared and panicky, and Vaggie had made some comments about how it was obvious Angel had been _taken advantage of_ before, and Charlie wasn’t a stranger to the violence that went on outside her small influence—she knew about it, but that didn’t mean she really understood why people felt the need to do it.

‘This is a _safe place_, you know,’ she said, warningly, folding her arms.

It was a testament to Charlie’s… Charlie-ness that Alastor actually found himself thinking about the answer. Angel had been under the influence, but he’d also retained enough presence of mind to explain all those rules. It was with that in mind that he said, genuinely affronted,

‘I was a perfect gentleman! The mere fact that I don’t believe in your venture doesn’t mean I intend to sabotage it!’

Charlie relented. ‘Okay… good. Thank you,’ she said, civilly. Maybe Alastor wasn’t so bad; Charlie knew all about demons that adhered not to morals, but to manners. Vaggie didn’t trust that, but Charlie knew that any set of rules was a set of rules, and something you could use to understand someone.

‘You’re quite welcome! After all, I’d like to see this stagger on a little longer than about thirty-one minutes!’

‘Does Angel need anything?’ Charlie asked. ‘Dinner, maybe? I can have dinner sent up.’

‘Dinner would do him a world of good, I’m sure! I’d recommend just leaving it at the door and knocking! But I’ve done all I can, and it’s put me in the mood for a brisk constitutional!’ Alastor picked Charlie up and set her neatly on the step above him, out of his way. ‘Don’t burn the place down till I get back!’

He was down the rest of the stairs before she could reply.

Alastor hadn’t been lying—he _was_ going for a stroll, around the largely deserted environs of the hotel. He just hadn’t disclosed its exact purpose.

As he walked, he twirled his cane in the air, playing a few seconds’ worth of jaunty marching band music to go with it. His microphone opened its eye once more, and he nodded to it, murmuring, ‘Show me the Studio.’

All microphones, anywhere in Hell, were on and transmitting as far as Alastor was concerned. It was not a power he used often, or openly, because if everyone knew he could listen on a whim, as well as broadcast, they’d start speaking in even more half-truths and euphemisms than usual.

Even if Valentino’s studio hadn’t been chock-full of mics, the pimp and Vox both had hellphones; and while Alastor might not have deigned to own one of the devices, he could still make use of their hardware. He sauntered along a rotting boardwalk, and heard Valentino say:

_‘Angel Dust is late. Again.’_

_‘I don’t know why you let him out of the studio at all.’_ That was Vox, of course. Alastor knew that self-satisfied tone, always underscored with a faint mosquito humming whine. He wasn’t sure if anyone else could hear it, but to him it was unbearable. _‘I’d be more careful with your cash cow.’_

_‘Believe me,’_ Valentino said sourly, _‘I’ve tried. He’s fucking slippery.’_

_‘Oh, I bet.’_

The dimensions of Alastor’s smile remained the same, but the number of visible teeth increased.

Valentino griped about Lord Sinuous for a while, boring Alastor immensely, but Vox soon steered the conversation back to Angel.

_‘You know,’_ the television demon said, _‘if keeping him is really that much trouble, you could always sign him over to me.’_

Valentino made a long-suffering noise. _‘Not this again.’_

_‘You’re going to realise I’m right, eventually! And you’re going to kick yourself when you see what I can do with him!’_

_‘What, broadcasting getting old for you? You want to flex your creative muscles?’ _Valentino’s voice was so full of derision that Alastor’s microphone rolled its eye. _‘They didn’t even have porn when you were around, genius.’_

‘Incorrect,’ Alastor murmured to himself.

_‘Quit trying to do my business for me,’_ Valentino said_. ‘And that includes my star actor.’_

Vox persisted._ ‘Just hear me out. You’re not pushing his limits, and the viewing public is going to get bored. Here, just off the top of my head, this is what you could be doing…’_

It went on and on, with all the detail of a much-revisited fantasy. Alastor listened, and the red light around him brightened.

At the end, Valentino laughed._ ‘You’re a fucking freak, Vox.’_

_‘Try some of that the next time he acts up. And keep the cameras rolling.’_

Alastor swiped his cane viciously through the air, and the sound cut off. ‘Well then!’ he said, in a bright, brittle voice so choked by static that the words were scarcely audible. ‘That was _educational_….’

If Vox was angling for Valentino’s position, he needed to be removed as well. That was just logic, pure and simple. Alastor rarely had a whim he didn’t indulge, but he could be very logical when circumstances required. It certainly had nothing to do with how Vox had talked about Angel like a piece of meat.

It was time to pay a visit to the Studio….

.oOx.

The Studio was one of the largest buildings in Hell—it was actually a complex, as most studios were, with many soundstages, the largest building containing all the offices needed for editors, writers, and administration, with Valentino’s penthouse and casting couch at the top of the ‘scraper. Because of paying Proserpine extremely well, Valentino enjoyed her territory, and the protection it garnered.

Her guards were both obvious and not so obvious—Proserpine was a Fallen, she had wards, and said wards were difficult to see, let alone pass; luckily for Alastor, they only truly barred Angels and those carrying obvious weapons. Those who might use magic, well, Proserpine figured anyone like that was a fellow Fallen, and deserved the spot—not that she told Valentino this.

Alastor breezed past them with a spring in his step, heading right up to the ostentatious wrought-iron gate. It was, of course, in the shape of a heart, at least once you squinted past all the curls and spikes. Every time the gates opened, the heart broke, a warning to those demons who flocked here dreaming of making it big.

Not everyone was as lucky as Angel Dust.

The guards were of the expected slabs-of-muscle variety, most of them equipped with multiple eyes. Alastor considered using them for a warm-up, then dismissed it. He didn’t want to get distracted.

The gates remained closed, and one of them spoke.

‘You got a name, Mister?’

‘That’s the radio demon, idiot,’ said his companion.

‘Yeah? And?’

‘If he’s here, he’s got business with Mr Valentino,’ said the wiser of the two, and gave a smile to Alastor that was full of terror. ‘Nice to see ya, sir.’ He opened the gate. ‘Go on in, I’m sure Mr Valentino don’t wanna be kept waitin’ on you. Sir.’

‘You’re right on the money!’ Alastor said, through an answering grin that took up most of his face. ‘Mr Valentino has certainly waited long enough.’

As he walked further into the studio lot, he heard the first guard congratulate the second on being so perceptive.

The hustle and bustle was such that he went unnoticed a good portion of the time, intermittent crashes and half-formed profanity marking the occasions where someone spotted him. Walking at an ordinary, business-like pace, as though he did this every day, he made his way into the biggest building.

The lobby was no less well-trafficked, full of demons chatting anxiously or laughing or shouting at one another, televisions blaring, staff creeping their way around the perimeter or weaving through the clustered crowds. Alastor ignored everything happening around him with perfect aplomb, simply vanishing and reappearing at the elevator. Like the guards, the attendant hit the penthouse button without being asked and waved him through as soon as the doors opened, trying to keep up their wobbling rictus of a smile. Alastor appreciated the effort.

The penthouse, when the doors opened, was in its own hallway, the colour scheme one of pink, red, white, and gold. Posters of the most blockbusting flicks were on the walls, larger than life, and the doors had heart-shaped windows in them, with hearts worked into the pattern on the carpet, the wallpaper, even the light fixtures and the door handles. It was surprisingly beautiful, for so un-beautiful an owner.

He could hear nothing from behind the doors, indicating they were well-soundproofed. Alastor hated soundproofing. He didn’t bother knocking, just gestured at the doors, which slammed open so hard that a few of the heart-shaped panes of glass cracked. None of the rooms were empty, and the occupants swung to look at him in annoyance that didn’t have time to shade fully into horror before he closed the doors again. It took him longer than he wanted, but at last he found the room where Valentino and Vox were lounging.

Valentino stiffened when he saw Alastor in the doorway, but Vox just grinned. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘Finally throwing in the towel? I’m glad you came to your senses.’

‘I’m not casting him in anything,’ Valentino immediately snapped, peevish. ‘You can’t make me cast him in anything.’

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen!’ Alastor strutted into the room, arms spread wide. ‘Our cathode companion is correct. I’m here to make amends. You’ve been the victims of a great oversight.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Valentino said, leaning back and folding his arms. ‘And what’s that?’

All of a sudden, Alastor’s eyes were the brightest things in the room, radio-dial pupils spinning. _‘I should have killed you the first time.’_

.xOo.

Human blood might not have shown up on Alastor’s suit, but demon blood had no such courtesy. Alastor had been dabbing at himself (with a monogrammed handkerchief, of course) for what felt like most of the time he’d been talking.

‘…and I can safely say that our friends Vox and Valentino have been, as I believe the former would say, bumped out of prime-time! Yes, they have, in fact, done the old two-step off this immortal coil! Now, you may be wondering, how do I plan to follow up such an absolute sockdollager? I guarantee you’ll be surprised…’

His microphone said the last two words with him: ‘…so _stay tuned!’_

.oXo.

Proserpine loved the broadcasts unironically, the way she loved all carnage, and her laughter could be heard from blocks away; some of her underlings even chuckled in appreciation. The boss being happy was unforeseen, most of them feeling like they were about to be punished for letting the Radio Demon inside her territory.

.xOo.

The radios turned on, spontaneously tuned to the broadcast, whether their owners wanted them to or not; so it was that Charlie and Vaggie heard it, as well as Angel Dust, who heard the strains of it as he made his way out of a post-coital nap, jerking awake when he heard Alastor’s voice say ‘Valentino’ and grabbing the radio, practically hugging it, eyes going wider and wider, something echoing in his memory, from only a few hours ago_…_.

_‘You do know that it doesn’t have to be sex between us—you could do a lotta **other **things….’_

_‘ “A lot of **other **things….” You’ve caught me, Angel Dust. I do believe I’d like to find out exactly what those are.’_

Oh, Angel thought, feeling giddy, oh _fuck_… he felt himself smiling wider and wider as he picked out Valentino’s screams, savouring them with as wicked a glee as Alastor himself. ‘Oooh, _Daddy…’ _he murmured at the radio. ‘Ain’tcha sweet t’me….’

Not everyone was so overjoyed. Downstairs, Charlie was pacing, hands alternately clutching at her head and fisting at her sides.

‘Oh no,’ Charlie said, ‘Oh no, oh no, ohhh noooo…’

‘He never said he wasn’t going to murder anyone while he was here,’ Vaggie pointed out. ‘And it wasn’t any of the guests.’

‘Apart from Angel, we still don’t have any guests!’

‘Yeah,’ Husk said, not looking up from pouring himself a glass of his own stock, ‘slim pickin’s.’

Charlie dragged her hands down her face. ‘He can’t say he’s going to support me and then go and kill two overlords!’

Alastor appeared in front of them, tilting his head quizzically. ‘Why not?’

‘Because—because it’s against the whole idea of the hotel, Al!’ Charlie said, more frustrated than angry with him.

‘He ain’t onna the guests,’ Husk pointed out again, eyes on the amber whisky. At least this job let him drink the top-shelf shit, though there would always be a fondness in the rumrunner’s heart for rotgut and moonshine.

Charlie sighed noisily, hiding her face in her hands. Maybe Vaggie had been right—but wait a minute, Husk had a point—_Angel Dust _was their only guest. And had been really drunk on venom, and Charlie knew being on drugs or alcohol made you say stuff maybe you wouldn’t normally… And she knew what Angel had told Vaggie, by now, about Valentino. About what he’d _suffered_. Maybe he’d told Alastor, too. And Alastor had, in his own twisted way, tried to _help._ Well, points for trying. Charlie just wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly. Didn’t he think her venture was destined to fail? So, why was he… wait a minute!

_This_ meant there was nothing stopping Angel Dust from taking over the Studio, which would mean he’d check out of the hotel! No, no, this was all wrong! He wasn’t supposed to go _back_ to sinning!

_Even if he was in less danger?_ said a little voice in her head.

‘Charlie, because you are very dear to me,’ Alastor said, laying a hand on her shoulder, ‘I’ll be candid. My little encore was just that! I’m not going to make a habit of it! And as Husk said, I am merely your backer!’

She looked at him with something more complex than trust behind her eyes. ‘Are you,’ she said, a little colder than usual, before floundering. She was still woefully unaware of what to follow that up with, to make it truly intimidating. She was _learning,_ though! There was _growth!_

‘Points for effort!’ said Alastor. ‘Now you’ve really got to _hone_ that suspicion! Polish it, make it _shine!_ I’ll leave you to practice!’ And with that, he was off up the stairs, in great springing leaps.

‘I’m not suspicious!’ he heard her protest, after him.


	10. Ain't He Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Oh ain't he sweet,  
Well see him walking down that street.  
Yes I ask you very confidentially:  
Ain't he sweet?_ \- Milton Ager/Jack Yellen, Ain't He Sweet, 1927

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fish and Moony are a very obtuse Batman reference. Head is meant to be Edith Head, the very famous Hollywood costume designer, who worked from the 30s on through the 70s. Angel doesn't know her name because he wasn't in show-business in life, though they were contemporaries.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone for your reviews, questions during the AMAs on the server, and for recommending this fic to your friends. We're both extremely honoured and hope you continue to enjoy it!

Angel Dust had listened to all of the broadcast he could, but had also found the whole thing on social media, and had listened to what he’d missed as well. He hadn’t stopped grinning for a moment, feeling his heart skip beats, and butterflies take up residence in his stomach.

But the venom had worn off, by then, and suspicion and fear could make lemons out of the best lemonade. What would Alastor want from him, for this favour? Would he close the studio, was that the point? To make sure Angel Dust was his alone?

‘Maybe he just did it because he _likes_ ya, Angelo,’ he said to himself in irritated Italian, before countering with, ‘Yeah, an’ maybe Charlie’s completely right about that inside of everyone is a virtuous angel tryin’a get out.’

He sighed, looking at himself in the bathroom mirror. ‘Come on, Angelo…’ he had _meant_ to follow that with something jaded, but Valentino hadn’t broken anything that touched the roots, and Angel’s roots were pretty damn strong. He looked back up at himself, and smirked.

‘You’re a _looker_, huh? Ya got the Radio Demon doin’ _hits _for ya! Cleopatra ain’t got nuttin’ on you, kid!’ He grinned. ‘Always knew ya had it in ya!’

There was a knock on the door. ‘Well, speak’a the Devil…’ he said to himself, a wicked smile curling his lips. The door opened before Angel could so much as think about crossing the room.

‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, Angel Dust, but the way is clear for you to take the stage! I hope you don’t mind that I solved your little problem! I’m sure it’s created at least seventeen other ones for you to tackle!’

Angel Dust came out of the bathroom, leaning in the bathroom doorway alluringly for a moment, mostly for his _own _gratification, listening to Alastor talk and just letting that delicious voice wrap around him.

‘Oh, _Daddy,’ _he purred in reply, feeling like Alastor had earned it, by now, ‘you get me the _nicest things…._’ He didn’t hide the way Alastor’s broadcast had made him feel as he crossed the room in a slinking step. ‘A boy could wind up awful _spoiled_…’

Alastor can’t have overlooked this effect, can he? God, please let that be the case, because it would be a shame to waste it.

Alastor had, in fact, overlooked it, although he was now having to wonder what else he had been expecting. He adjusted his bowtie, knowing there was some appropriate response, and coming up completely blank as to what it might be. He was glib and charming enough that people had always been eager to read in flirting where there was none, but that didn’t mean he knew how to do it. Angel carefully explaining the finer points of sadomasochism, with visual, auditory, and tactile aids, was one thing. This was another.

Angel, luckily, picked up on this; but the more charming thing, really, was that _Alastor wasn’t trying to lean away from him._ He was _trusting _Angel, trusting him to respect the rules. Angel leaned down. ‘Are we at “Daddy” yet, sweetheart?’ he asked in an undertone, batting his eyelashes.

Alastor had to laugh at that. ‘Ask me again during our next lesson!’ No sooner had he said that, though, than it occurred to him that he had just made Angel extremely busy. He was fairly sure doubt hadn’t been on the list of exciting new sensations Angel had wanted to show him, but there it was again.

Angel wanted to smile, wanted to joke about it, but there was a lot in the air right now; he needed to get to the Studio, for one thing; and he needed to know just how he was gonna spin this, for another.

‘Listen, we could flirt all day, but… I need some questions answered, Al. First of all, what am I supposed to say to everyone? The press are already after me for an interivew, and I don’t wanna make this thing public, but at the same time…’ he trailed off, ‘I mean, me showin’ up right after you left that? Gonna look like a present, sweetheart; wouldn’t be surprised if people were already talkin’.’ He put out his hands. ‘I don’t wanna worry you—but I needta know what you want, okay?’

He didn’t want to fuck this up. This was the best thing to ever happen to him, down here.

_I wanted you to have the same freedom to decide your rules as you did with me._ Alastor meant to say it out loud, he really did, but it tangled in his throat and rearranged itself into, ‘Well, now it’s time for a bit of classic subterfuge! Contact Cherri Bomb, have her seize this golden opportunity, and then work out a truce by which you agree to share the Studio’s stewardship! Not so much as a soupçon of my involvement!’

Despite it all, Angel was disappointed. Yeah, so it had only been a day—but _he_ hadn’t been the idiot that had made the first big dramatic show of affection, _Alastor_ had; so he could be disappointed that Al wanted him to just forget about it, right?

‘Yeah, that’s the _sensible_ thing to do,’ he said, unable to hide his feelings much. ‘I still gotta head out, Al.’ He headed for the door. ‘I…’ He paused, wanting to say a lot of things, but not wanting to drive Alastor further away, so he said, ‘…guess we’ll see each other later.’

He’d won; Val was gone, he had everything he’d ever wanted!

So why did he feel like he’d _lost?_

.xOo.

Alastor paced the upper floors of the hotel, going down the stairs and back up again, replaying the conversation in his head. It didn’t get any better the more he listened to it. He was angry with himself, and angry with Angel, and angry with himself for being angry with Angel. Why did he even _care?_ He hadn’t gotten rid of Vox and Valentino to make Angel feel grateful and lavish attention on him—which, frankly, was so unusual for him it deserved its own national holiday—so it shouldn’t have been a problem to head that off at the pass.

What did it matter that he hadn’t been able to say what he was feeling? They hadn’t had time for a heart-to-heart. Angel had to act quickly before some other demon snatched up the opportunity Alastor had handed him. But would Alastor get another chance to say anything?

Angel wasn’t much better—though he did forget his troubles for a little while as he came up to the studio lot, having exited the hotel through a back door so as to avoid being waylaid by Charlie (and all of her good intentions). The two guards at the Studiogate smiled at him—Angel had a charm and suavity that meant most everybody liked him.

‘Heya, Angel,’ Fish said with a grin. ‘Hear the news, didja?’

‘Mighta,’ Angel said. ‘What’s the news since then? How’s your boss?’

‘Still laughin’,’ Fish said. _‘She _thought it was funny.’

‘She would,’ Angel said, ‘well, I think I’ll go check an’ see who survived.’

‘Everyone,’ said Moony, opening the gates. ‘That’s the weird thing.’

‘Nah, ‘t ain’t weird at all,’ Fish chortled. ‘Not if ya read between the lines.’

‘What lines?’ Mooney asked, and Fish laughed.

‘Nevermind,’ Fish said.

‘Nice ta see ya both, boys,’ Angel said, walking in. ‘Yer doin’ a great job. Ask for a raise.’

Boots planted themselves between his shoulders, and Cherri kicked off to do a somersault over his head before landing on the path in front of him, well inside the gate. ‘Yeah, fantastic,’ she said, blowing a kiss at the guards.

‘I came over as soon as I felt like it,’ she said to Angel in a different tone. ‘What the fuck’s been happening?’

Angel laughed to see her. ‘Hey, watch it!’ he said, ruffling her hair because it was fun to try and ruffle that huge messy mop she insisted had been the height of fashion when she’d died. ‘How are ya, kiddo?’ he asked, for all the world like they were just two friends having a stroll, and not like two of the most powerful demons in entertainment. Everyone around them had stopped the usual bustle of the show after the Radio Demon, and hurriedly got back to it as they saw Angel and Cherri on the Studio lot.

The head of wardrobe came over to them, a no-nonsense spider, herself, that Angel knew was a big deal on account of how some of his co-workers treated her name.

‘Angel Dust,’ she said, because she always used full names. ‘We need a decision made in regards to colour.’

‘Yeah? Why can’t you make it?’

She paused, thoughtful rather than taken aback. ‘If you want me to, I can,’ she said.

‘You’re the expert, Head, not me. Make ‘em look good, that’s all I gotta say about it.’ He knew she’d like that, and that she was very good at her job. She designed the suit he was currently wearing, as a matter of fact. And the boots.

‘As you say, Angel Dust,’ she said, but there was a tone in it now, one that Angel Dust only noticed after she’d left.

‘So, you wanna come work for me?’ Angel said to his best friend, looking around at, he realised, _his _Studio. Everyone had eyes on him, the way they used to do for Val. Angel had never noticed anybody thinking he was hot stuff before, not like this, anyway. But in the absence of Val, it seemed like everyone just assumed the star was now in charge.

Huh. Maybe folks were more attuned to Angel’s sense of responsibility than he’d thought….

Cherri propped her chin in her hand in an exaggerated thinking pose. ‘Mmmmmm… yeah, sure, why not. I’d ask who died and made you boss, but I don’t ask questions that stupid.’ She punched his upper right arm. ‘I think of it more as working _next_ to you, though. Should I get myself some shoulder pads?’

‘You’d look good inna suit,’ Angel Dust said, because her fashion choices were, frankly, mystifying. ‘Just don’t go lookin like that Killjoy broad, that’d be weird.’

‘Who said I’d be wearing a _suit_?’ she laughed.

‘Mr Angel Dust, sir?’ said a meek voice, and Angel looked over to see Val’s old secretary, who had damp hair and no makeup, unusual for her. ‘I was wondering, um, Mr LaMonte wants to see you.’

‘Yeah?’ Angel said. ‘He can wait. Where’s Delancey? Is the mess cleaned up yet?’

‘Ms Delancey is in her office, sir, and the mess—the mess is in process of being cleaned up.’

‘Good job,’ Angel said, taking care to begin as he meant to go on. ‘Send Ms Delancey to…’ he paused, thinking, ‘shit, well, I guess _I’ll _go to _her_ office, nevermind. Make sure you get their hellphones, Pru.’

‘Oh, I did, sir, I did.’ She pulled them out of her ever-present messenger satchel. They were melted and wrecked. ‘This is all there was left, after… after the Radio Demon.’

Angel took them anyway. ‘Thanks a million, Pru. You’re a peach. Just keep doin’ what you do best, only do it for me an’ Cherri, now.’

‘Yes sir! Yes ma’am!’ she said, and smiled a little more genuinely, before scurrying off.

‘Being serious for a minute, here, Cherri—ya think ya can go an’ take stock of the violence against women an’ queers for me, and nip it in the bud? Cancel the sequels, fire the creeps?’ Cherri was the best one for that, she was a good enforcer that way; but whether she liked being given tasks, even tasks she’d do anyway, was something Angel was testing.

Cackling, Cherri rubbed her hands together. ‘Sure thing! Fire ‘em outta what?’ She threw him a salute, then said, ‘No, seriously, do I do even half the shit I’ve been wishing I could, or just dump their asses out on the street? ‘Cause it looks like you’re actually trying to set an example here.’

Angel smiled, ‘Ya might say I was trained ta run an organisation, yeah,’ he said, and Cherri knew damn well he’d been in the Business in life. Whether she realised that meant he knew was Responsibility and Leadership meant, well, he was less sure of that. ‘Bawl ‘em out, give ‘em the bum’s rush, but keep the bombs to a minimum—this is my turf now, I don’t wanna turn it into a brawl.’

‘I’d say you really _have_ changed, but I always knew that was in there,’ she said, punching him fondly on the opposite arm. ‘Valentino couldn’t grind it outta you. If you have a desk, I’ll have a list on it of people you can promote. I know a gal.’

‘I know you do, doll.’ Angel said. ‘Now ya get everythin’ ya always dreamed, courtesy of yer best friend. I want three pitches for new flicks on my desk by the end’a the week, think you can do that?’ He knew she could, she’d been stifled by Val’s grip on this studio for years.

‘Pffft, just three? I’ll give you so many ideas you’ll beg me to _stop.’_ She grinned, but it was brief. ‘Angie… I’m psyched for this, I really am, but you know it’s not just courtesy of _you,_ right? What does the Radio Demon get out of this? What does he _want?’_

‘You let me worry about that, sister,’ Angel Dust said immediately, with more confidence than he felt. ‘I got it handled.’

.oOx.

Alastor did _not_ have this handled. He did not have this handled _at all_.

Just hours ago, everything had seemed so magnificently clear, and now it was… he couldn’t think of a better descriptor than _turbid._ All this stirred-up mud of—of _feelings_. It was horrible. Part of him wanted to go right back to the studio, grab Angel, and say, _I did it for you and only for you, because I hated seeing you in that position, and what I want is for you to be able to make your own choices the way I can._ But how could he get that out when he was hardly able to believe he was thinking it? Why couldn’t he have just said it to start with? It was a statement of fact. There shouldn’t have been a problem with it. What was wrong with him?

Well, he wasn’t going to figure it out in the hotel. Alastor had never really been one to mingle (not sincerely, anyway), but he had the dim recollection that people overburdened with emotion tended to go to bars and offload said ballast onto the bartender. This was an accepted part of the bartending profession.

Husk, Alastor thought after a moment’s consideration, would not agree. In fact, this was very much a thing Husk should not even be made aware of. He had to find another bar.

.xOo.

_Every Wickedness_ had a habit of nudging people toward itself. It was an effect of having a succubus in one spot for so long. Yve had been able to sway even her fellow angels; because it wasn’t about sex, with a succubus that was good at her job, it was about _wanting_.

The neon sign snap-hummed on, lighting the deepening shadows with pink and red script underlined with blue, like it had been waiting for Alastor to walk around the corner.

Alastor stopped and looked at it. It was an obvious choice of destination, except that he hadn’t actually made it. Normally he would have been suspicious of that, but he wasn’t really in the mood. Any port in a storm— especially if this was the first storm you’d ever experienced, having always thought you’d never get caught in one.

And that was how maudlin he was getting _without_ alcohol. Alastor massaged his temples with his fingers. For the first time, it occurred to him that there might be other clientele in the bar, and, given which bar it was, he might not be able to clear them all out with a grin and a few pointed comments. Oh well. He’d come this far, and he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

The bar had been around for centuries, and as such, had been redecorated many times; each subsequent redecoration had left things from the previous one, until there were gaslamps mixed with backlit neon scribbles, wooden settles upholstered with glitter vinyl, wood panelling and sponge-painted walls. Quite apart from looking horrible, it all seemed consistent, because it had all been redecorated all of its thousands of times by the same demon, who still ran the bar, and was still behind it, waiting for each patron to come through the doors.

There were, in fact, other clients in the bar—recognisable ones, both serpentine. Alastor had never met Lord Sinuous, but was able to sense his full presence filling the room. The other was Sir Pentious, looking worse for wear, and as though he’d had a surgeon’s attention recently; but both were curled up in a corner, heads together. They made a pretty couple, though one got the impression they were not, in fact, entangled.

A pretty, old succubus was at the bar, and smiled at him as he came in.

‘Well, well,’ she said, ‘at long last, you come into my li’l ol’ bar. What’ll it be, sugar?’ she asked, her voice warm and soft and twanging with an accent Alastor knew as _home._ Succubi were like that, they always knew just what you needed. It was why most of them owned bars and hotels, nowadays.

Alastor had died before the repeal of Prohibition, but more importantly, he’d done so in New Orleans. Despite generally abstaining out of lack of interest, he knew his way to the bottom of a glass. He sat down at the bar, resting his elbows on the polished wood.

‘Bourbon, if they know how to make it down here, rum if they don’t.’ So far as he was aware, the chief sources of spirits in Hell were Lord Sinuous and bathtub gin (if “gin” could really be applied to distillations that tended to explode that much), and he hadn’t sampled either.

Yve chuckled, and it was a lovely, liquid sound. ‘I’ve got bourbon, and if it ain’t up to standard, you can talk to the man himself about it, seein’ as he’s here,’ she said, as she poured him a glass on the rocks, and slid it over, leaning on the bar. ‘What’s troublin’ you, honey child?’

She might have been turning on the capital-G guile, but this was the Radio Demon, she was curious about him. He was very mysterious, since he didn’t really have friends, or even frenemies (what a fine word that was, what a fine, Hellish word!).

Alastor swirled the amber liquid in the glass, listening to the ice clink. Here it was, staged just as he had pictured it. Now for the part where he actually talked about what he was feeling. Was the purpose of the alcohol to loosen his tongue, or to go some way towards filling the pit that had suddenly opened in his stomach?

‘This may come as a surprise, but I’ve failed to express something, and I don’t know how to go about it.’

Yve gave a gentle smile. ‘You’ve come to the right place to get help on that, darlin’. I specialise in expressin’ things.’ It could have been an innuendo, but it was delivered without any spin, making it seem like it referred to exactly what Alastor meant.

Alastor glanced down at his microphone where it leaned against the bar. It blinked at him encouragingly.

‘Say, hypothetically, you did something for someone.’ He knew this wouldn’t have fooled an imp, but it was about the fact that the set dressing was there at all, not how shoddy it was. ‘Something that betokened a certain amount of… concern. And when they asked what this might signify, you evaded the question and told them they’d better be going on about their day, because you felt safer doing what you thought they’d expect of you, than saying…’

He trailed off, took a drink, swallowed the burn of it. It certainly had a different flavour than when he’d been alive, but at the moment he couldn’t be bothered to decide if that was good or bad.

‘Except you’re beginning to think they hadn’t expected that, after all.’

Yve was no stranger to the loops and curlicues of someone trying to distance themselves from their problem using hypotheticals. She followed them easily, listening for all the world like this was the most interesting story she’d ever heard.

‘I’d go back to them and tell ‘em. Never too late to say what you mean, honey.’

Oh, he was in _love_ with Angel, was that it? Well, good for Angel, snagging a man like this, that was willing to keep him safe. That boy was better than Cleopatra at getting people to like him.

There was actual guilt in Alastor’s eyes when he raised them. ‘What if it was only a few hours ago?’

Yve gave into the urge to smile, just a little. ‘Well, good for you, realising it so quickly. Takes some folks _years.’_ It was true, and she’d heard the regrets of many a sinner that had waited _too_ long, and missed their chance.

‘Of course,’ Alastor said hastily, ‘some time to cool down and attend to that very real urgent business might be for the best…’ Except there hadn’t been anything to cool down _from,_ and he knew it, and the business had probably already been attended. He wouldn’t have gone to the Studio if he hadn’t thought Angel could catch that sudden curveball and make it work. He sighed.

‘How drunk do I need to be to believe that?’

‘ ‘bout three more’a those bourbons _at least,_ sweetpea,’ Yve said, in a low voice. What a cute boy he was, under all those teeth! Most of the scariest ones were, in her experience. ‘But I don’t suggest it. You’re doin’ so _well,_ realisin’ all this _right away.’_

Angel was a lucky guy, she thought; she would have been happy to crack open the Radio Demon’s heart and eat it, but she was just as happy to see her favourite sinner get to it first.

‘_Realising_ it is a whole other kit and caboodle from _doing _anything about it,’ Alastor grumbled. ‘I—I don’t know if I can _be _the person who says those kinds of things. Is that even what h—what they would want?’ He raised the glass to eye level and squinted at it. ‘You said three to believe the inadvisable. Care to gamble on how many before I pass out?’

Yve raised a brow. ‘Honey, and I mean this from the bottom of my heart, **_no._** You gotta good thing going, don’t fuck it up.’ There was, beneath her warm tones, the barest hint of an _or else._

Yve had known Angel since he’d first come down here; she’d given him advice about how to survive, and he’d taken it. He frequented her bar and the hotel, and had been one of her only boys before he’d gotten stars in his eyes and wanted to be in the movie biz. He was one of her children, therefore, and she was just as protective as one might expect a madam to be. She wasn’t the only one in here to feel that way about Angel, even—she knew Lord Sinuous was listening, even though he was occupied with the endearingly oblivious Sir Pentious.

No one needed to see him go to the Studio this time, Alastor reasoned. He could just will himself there, inside the office that would now be Angel’s; it would be that much easier since he’d visited already.

He drained the rest of the bourbon in one go, and coughed, because he hadn’t done that in a long time and it was, actually, very good bourbon. ‘If I come back with this not having worked,’ he said, pulling out a clean handkerchief and wiping his mouth, ‘I’ll want the bottle.’

If she’d been a younger demon, and a sinner, she might have said something like _not gonna lie, I was expecting a threat there_; but she was older than saying such obvious things. ‘It’ll be waiting,’ she promised. ‘Y’all both better come on back for champagne if it works, hear?’ she added, with the kind of smile southern belles would kill for.

Alastor shuddered theatrically, switching back to his usual tones as though, well, a switch had been flipped. ‘Ghastly stuff! Can’t stand the bubbles! Makes me think of swamp gas!’

Yve laughed, unable to help herself. It was a moment or two before she could compose herself enough to speak. ‘Well,’ she said, wiping tears away. ‘Cocktails then.’

‘There’s no getting past you, is there? I suppose we’ll have to!’ Perhaps it was the bourbon talking, but just then, the idea of being open about his involvement with Angel, at least within the walls of _Every Wickedness_, didn’t seem like quite so much of a problem. He was the _Radio Demon_, after all. What harm could Hell’s gossip circuit hope to do to him? He swept Yvelle a bow.

‘You have my gratitude for so adroitly tending bar!’

Yve chuckled, resisting the urge to call him silly. He was certainly _dramatic _enough to be on the radio….


	11. Ramifications In A Bouquet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel learns Alastor's secret, and Alastor begins to receive the aftermath of his actions--internally, and politically.

The penthouse was still being cleaned, but Angel needed to see it; when he came up there, it was to see a distinct lack of bodies, which chilled him to the bone. There had been only one demon who hadn’t fled immediately into hiding upon seeing the Radio Demon, and he was one of Angel’s favourite co-workers: his fluffer and dresser, a pretty little squish of a thing called Spice Drop, who neatly explained the lack of corpses, as soon as Angel Dust asked.

‘He _ate _them,’ he said, for Angel’s ears only. ‘Had a knife and fork, and everything, for all that those teeth would need one.’

Angel’s mind, supplied with the missing puzzle piece, now put together a picture that was even more gruesome than it had been before. So, if you _ate_ souls, they disappeared forever? Did you also gain their power that way? Either way, it was horrific, even for Hell. Angel, however, was more concerned about the effect watching Alastor sup had on Spice Drop.

‘You okay, Spice?’ Angel asked.

‘Oh, yes, I’m fine! You really Cleopatra’d him, didn’tcha, you _dog,_ you!’ he said, using a bit of Angel’s own slang—for Spicy was a new arrival, having only survived a single Extermination; but, like Angel, he had immediately gone into the movie biz, because he hadn’t been able to in life.

‘Uh,’ Angel said, still committed to Alastor’s request not to make them public. ‘Idunno whatcher _talkin’ _about, Spicy, I’m just takin’ advantage of an opportunity, here.’ Which was, broadly, true.

Alastor, of course, chose that precise moment to manifest. His eyes lit immediately on Spice Drop, and his grin broadened enough to be shark-worthy. ‘Oh, hello! You’re still here! The one without any, shall we say, post-prandial concerns!’

(Of course, even if he _had_ been inclined to have dessert, he would have been too full to manage it; it wasn’t physical size that determined how much someone would sate you, but power level, and two overlords were really a seven-course meal).

Spice drop gave Alastor a look, up and down. ‘Are you trying to comment on my weight, you overgrown cinnamon stick?’ he said.

‘This is Spice Drop, Al,’ Angel said, putting his arms around Spice to make sure Alastor knew he was _really fond_ of the chubby bitch. ‘He’s my dresser. Spicy, this is Al, he runs the hotel I’m livin’ in, alongside the princess.’

He really hoped they’d get along; Spice was loud and proud, and Angel loved that about him—but he was just a little worried about Alastor’s mood, at the moment; but Alastor had already stopped noticing Spice Drop’s existence.

_Living in,_ present tense? _Wasn’t_ Angel going to take up residence here in the Studio? But could Alastor ask without making it seem like he was trying to kick Angel out? The bourbon sloshed around inside him unhelpfully. Why was this so _complicated? _

‘Very nice!’ he said, and hated it immediately.

Angel narrowed his eyes, more than a little thrown by the reply. ‘Uh… you okay, Al?’ he asked, and Spice was concerned now by proxy, taking hold of Angel’s lower hand and squeezing. Angel squeezed back in reassurance.

He’d done it before—Spice put up a good front, and wasn’t scared of some things that weirded out Angel (like aforementioned cannibalism), but was terrified of other things that Angel shrugged off. So, he squeezed Angel’s hand when he needed reassurance that his big brother-cum-lover was there to protect him from Val or anybody else. Angel had that arrangement with most of his co-workers—and even though Spicy didn’t _seem_ afraid of Val in the moment, _after_ any altercation was when he’d cry and shake in Angel’s arms.

‘No,’ Alastor admitted, and it came out laced with static purely for how difficult it was to say. ‘I’m not. And I didn’t behave appropriately towards you, Angel Dust.’

He fidgeted, planting his cane in the shag carpet and arranging his hooves around it.

‘And that merits an apology, as well as the disclosure of what I should have said in the first place.’ He glanced sidelong at Angel to see how this was going over so far.

Spice let go of Angel’s hand. ‘I’ll go,’ he said, very quietly, and went. Angel was relieved at Spice’s decorum. Angel went and leaned on Val’s desk, upper arms folded and middle arms on his hips.

‘I’m listenin’,’ Angel said, trying to sound neutral. Did Alastor regret their time, was this a breakup? Might be, might also be something different. _Don’t decide yet, just listen til the end,_ he told himself.

For a fleeting moment, Alastor wished he had more bourbon. ‘You asked what I wanted,’ he said, eyes scanning the room, trying to take in all the details he’d ignored before, ‘and I gave you the brush off.’ _He knows that, you dunce, get to the point! _He cleared his throat.

‘What I wanted—what I _want_—is for you to be _unfettered,_ because it was appalling, the way those two were treating you, and I couldn’t stand for it. Because, as previously stated, I… like you.’

Angel smiled, relief letting those butterflies show up in his stomach again, and start pickin’ out curtains. ‘I like you too, ya big lummox,’ he said fondly, no stranger to _‘like’_ being a code word for something else. He could read between lines just fine. ‘Git over here, lemme hug ya.’ He opened his arms, all of them.

Alastor got, and let himself be hugged. After a moment, tentatively, he put his own arms around Angel.

‘I had to come to terms with actually saying it,’ he said, mostly into Angel’s shoulder. ‘And that took some assistance. But I would very much like for our _thing _to continue.’ Out of nowhere, he wondered if Angel found the smell of strong liquor hanging about him to be reassuring. ‘Even, or perhaps especially, in your present capacity.’

‘Well, how about that, so would I,’ he answered, chuckling. Angel smelled the bourbon, and figured Alastor had needed a little liquid courage, like anybody might; he was grateful, and held Alastor just as long as Al wanted to be held, and not longer. Owing to his nature, Angel’s hugs were much more than they had been, in life, which was saying a lot, as Angel had always given very warm hugs.

Alastor drew back enough to meet Angel’s eyes, but not quite out of range of his hands. It occurred to him that, with the thorniest issue resolved, he could keep his streak going and address minor concerns. It was just like murder, it got easier with practice.

‘Are you going to move in here?’ Alastor asked. ‘I understand you’re not in even the _pretend_ penitent business anymore, and I can have your belongings moved back in two shakes of an imp’s tail, but… the Hazbin is my domicile, for the moment.’

Angel thought about it. ‘Nah, I prefer to keep work and life separate.’ It would haunt him, to sleep here. Especially in this room; he needed to redecorate it. Maybe in that “gothic” style Spicy was always goin’ on about….

And, anyway, he liked being able to talk with Vaggie about stuff. She’d been real helpful so far. And he liked Chuck, she was a good kid; a little misguided, but a good kid.

‘Splendid!’ Alastor said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Who knows, perhaps having a resident overlord will even draw in some custom!’ That made him remember his initial assessment of Angel, and he smirked a little ruefully at himself. He’d wanted change, and this was it. He just hadn’t thought it would happen to him in quite this way.

‘That’s gonna take some gettin’ used to,’ he said. ‘You mind askin’ Charlie if I’m still allowed to live at the hotel? I still wanna work on some things, but I’m not sure she ever realised I’m happy bein’ what I am.’

It was the sticking point. Angel thought of his “redemption” as being more about getting away from the poisonous environment at work; but with Val and Vox gone, and him in power, that poison could be burned out of the whole Studio. It didn’t mean the damage wasn’t there, but it certainly helped to know that the bad guys were dead or on the outs.

Alastor prodded him very lightly in the chest with one talon. ‘Isn’t that a dialogue in which you should be taking part? I’ll throw my hat in the ring at being your advocate, but I shrink from spouting second-hand arguments!’

‘I got work ta do,’ Angel protested, but it sounded evasive, even to him. He sighed, ‘I just don’t wanna lecture, an’ I know I’ll fly off the handle if she lays inta _you.’ And I don’t want to break my promise to keep this under wraps._ It was going to be hard enough to do that after things calmed down.

‘She might well do that!’ Alastor either couldn’t hide his delight at the notion, or couldn’t be bothered to. ‘If you’re willing to pass up that much amusement, that’s your problem!’

He remembered himself, or more accurately remembered the ordeal he’d just gone through, and added, quieter, ‘I do appreciate that you would come to my defense, Angel Dust. It’s not something I’m accustomed to considering!’

Finding a chair and arranging himself in it, he sighed, and went on, ‘I suppose this is the least I can do in return… Just catch me up on the salient points, will you, so I’m well-prepared?’

Angel was almost relieved to hear that irreverent announcer tone again, though it was different, now that he knew that there was an actual person beneath it. It was endearing to know that someone with as glib a tongue as that still struggled when it came to putting words to truly _important _things.

‘Well, I’m an overlord now, like ya said. Owner of the Studio _and_ the Network—if I can wrangle that—and that means I’ve got an occupation; but I still wanna live at the hotel. Dunno what that means for Chuck an’ her project, but I like bein’ near you. If what I’m doin’ right now don’t count as makin’ my life better in her books, well…’ he shrugged. ‘Guess I’m a failure.’

He wasn’t bothered by it, not when he knew nobody on this lot thought he was a failure, not now. Amazing, how getting rid of only two voices telling him he was a failure reminded him of all the other, quieter ones that said differently.

‘I’d say that remains to be seen!’ Alastor replied, and laughed.

Together, over the next hour, they roughed out the basics of why Angel should be allowed to stay at the Hazbin—Alastor was surprised at his own insistence that they go beyond _“I’m the one keeping the entire business from falling apart and I say so”_—before Alastor decided to return to the hotel himself for the time being. He had no problem being seen walking out of the Studio this time, precisely because no one had seen him walk in. It was entirely possible the furore from his last visit had died down, people having work to get to, and he saw no harm in giving the pot another little stir.

He was glad to be walking back in a much calmer and more thoughtful frame of mind than he’d arrived in, but as it turned out, his thoughts kept leaning towards how enjoyable Angel’s hug had actually been. Was it just that he’d been prepared? But, then, why would he keep dwelling on the surprising strength in those slender arms, or the feel of Angel’s fluffy chest, soft as down, pressed momentarily under his cheek? He’d never felt anything of that particular texture before; it was closer to fur than hair, but not really like either. And Angel was just covered in it entirely, as Alastor had had ample opportunity to see.

Wonderful. As soon as he dealt with one batch of confusing feelings, another was laid out fresh and ready.

When Alastor arrived back at the hotel, the lobby was still deserted of any new clientele; but there _was _a beautiful cake frosted with mirror-glaze chocolate, decorated with blue violets, daisies, goldenrod, and nasturtium, and topped with an arrangement of strawberries cut to resemble rosebuds. Everyone was discussing what to do about it, Charlie holding a card in one hand. Alastor could see, with only a little squinting, that it was from Lord Sinuous.

‘Alastor,’ Husk said, seeing him first. ‘The fuck did you start carin’ about porn, anyway?’

‘Don’t be ruuuude!’ Niffty scolded. ‘He was probably just fighting obscenity! Right? Hm? Look at this cake, isn’t it keen?’

‘It’s for you,’ Vaggie growled, hoping it was poisoned.

‘For me?’ Alastor put a hand to his chest. ‘I’m afraid I’m still stuffed from earlier today! Do you imagine it will fit in the icebox?’

So the old snake approved, did he? That was food for thought, especially given Angel’s talk about allies, though Alastor had gone this long leaving the Fallen to their own affairs and didn’t really see why this should change. Even the oldest overlords were spring chickens by the standards of the Fallen, and they were sinners one and all, former mortals who had figured that if they were going to be in Hell, they might as well control as much of it as possible. It made them much more vulnerable.

The Fallen, on the other hand, tended towards the inscrutable. They didn’t get involved in politics, and very few of them shared Lucifer’s nature, which could best be described as, well, devil-may-care. If they had weaknesses, Alastor didn’t know them. But he was quite sure that they knew more than just two ways to utterly destroy lesser demons.

Which, he reflected, was probably the point of the cake, regardless of whether or not consuming even a slice would send him out of his mind for the next several hours. As for the unusual combination of flowers, well, Alastor was not unfamiliar with their meanings: Lord Sinuous was fond of Angel, he was aware of things that happened concerning Angel, and he would be paying close attention.

Alastor hadn’t thought about that.

Charlie smiled. ‘Sure,’ she said, offering the card. ‘I guess Lord Sinuous didn’t like Valentino either, huh?’ but her voice was wobbly, the way it got when she was nervous. Strange, for the daughter of Lucifer to be nervous around anyone.

Alastor’s room hadn’t been established yet, so Charlie wasn’t sure where to put the cake. ‘Uh, where exactly are you staying, these days, Al?’ she asked.

‘Oh,’ said Alastor, not looking up from the card but still grinning like anything, ‘I think I’m entitled to a piece of the penthouse, don’t you?’

‘Sure!’ Charlie said. ‘The view’s really gorgeous up there.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flower meanings are as follows:
> 
> blue violets - Watchfulness
> 
> daisies - Patience
> 
> goldenrod - Be Cautious, Encouragement
> 
> nasturtium - Conquest, Victory in Battle


	12. Stay For The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastor tries porn, cuddling, and finds out a surprisingly unfamiliar side to a familiar pastime...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will contain consensual, graphic, hard (though not fatal) vore. That means people get bites taken out of them. This and the next chapter will both contain that. There's also mention of self-amputation urges in this chapter toward the end. The next chapter will also contain graphic surgical vivisection.

The room was luxe, and beautiful... and empty. There was a television of course, and a radio simply because anywhere Alastor manifested, there was a radio. Alastor had a feeling there would also be, should he look for them, movies with Angel in them.

He looked. There were. An entire row of them, in fact. Had he put those there? He must have. Somehow he didn't see Charlie being flexible enough to do the mental gymnastics necessary to consider them appropriate viewing material for her guests. It shouldn't have unsettled him; it was more or less the same thing he'd done to pull all of Angel's belongings out of the Studio. He hadn't needed to know the specifics of those, either. But he had been _thinking_ about that when he'd done it.

Alastor didn't like when his subconscious used his powers without consulting him first.

He was even less pleased to find that he already missed Angel's company. He plopped down on the bed and bounced a little, listening disconsolately to the creak it made. He shouldn't have been doing anything disconsolately at all, and sat there for some time feeling annoyed about this. Was he desperate enough to try and watch one of the movies? He did have the benefit of a new perspective. Maybe it wouldn't be as much of a slog as last time. An inspection of the titles told him absolutely nothing, so at last he shut his eyes and plucked one off the shelf at random.

_Screaming the Name_ was directed by Cheryl Bombastic, and started off with a story—one of an ancient curse, one that could only be broken by offering proper sacrifice to the Old God of the Woods. Angel Dust was playing an unwilling sacrifice, and got to showcase a lot of his snappy wit as he protested being pulled from his home and carried to the old stone circle, and tied down on the stone altar table during the summer equinox.

He struggled beautifully, and then, when the god was supposed to emerge, it was all in shadows, sensual and shrouding the god in mystery. Black hands slid up Angel's thighs, and his struggles stilled.

'That's... a lot warmer than I was expecting,' he said, looking toward the camera, as those long black hands slid farther up his bare thighs, spreading him open. A shadowy mouth breathed warm on him, and a black tongue started to taste. Angel moaned. 'Oh, is _that_ what you meant by _feast_... I could get into this...' he said, biting his lip and moaning, arching. Yet, cleverly, the film didn't exactly show the forest god, leaving it up to imagination.

And, _oh,_ a man from New Orleans could _easily_ imagine a forest god.

Alastor hadn't realised he was picturing something with antlers until he felt the increased weight of his own. He reached up and felt one. 'Oh, now that's just _crass!_' Scowling (which he could permit himself to do, being alone), he willed them back to their usual unobtrusive size. He did not, however, stop watching.

The plot was predictable, but at least there _was_ one, and the same went for the characters' motivations. The previous film—Alastor didn't remember who'd directed it—hadn't bothered with either.

There was also a lot of focus on Angel's face, and his bound hands gripping the edges of the stone table, which Alastor appreciated and resented in equal measure, given the reminder of their lesson. He spent most of the climatic scene (as it were) trying to figure out if this was something he would be interested in doing after all, given how his body had reacted, and finally concluded it still wasn't for him. He _did_ like the story, though, and was amused by the ending, where Angel fast-talked his way out of becoming the god's consort forever but promised to come back next year.

'Well,' he said, again to the empty room, 'that was diverting.'

There was a lot of loving attention given Angel's chest, as he placed the god's black, furry claws there, or caressed the swirling heart marking on it himself. It reminded Alastor of what it had felt like, to actually finally feel that fluff on his bare skin. It had been so soft. _So_ soft....

Alastor sighed. 'And we're back to this again.' In retrospect, he wasn't clear on his reasoning vis-a-vis one of Angel's movies, in which the spider was all but guaranteed to get nude and for a fuss to be made of this, making him feel better. One might even say his logic was fuzzy. Much like Angel's—

Alastor didn't swear often, but when he did, he made it count.

Just as the credits finished rolling, someone knocked at Alastor's door.

'Al? You decent?' Angel called through the door. It was an open invitation to deliver a punchline, because what were friends for, after all?

Alastor grinned, and not just because he was shortly about to have company. 'I haven't been decent since 1917, but all my clothes are still on!'

Angel laughed, opening the door. 'Ya know, my Aunt Lorenzo used ta say that—oh hey, were ya watchin _Screamin’ the Name_? That's a good one.' He didn't comment further, or even really think much of it, other than being relieved it was one of Cherri's films. He wasn't sure what they were doing in Al's room, but he was glad to know where _his_ collection of his own films were.

'It wasn't completely devoid of artistic merit,' Alastor said, glad for the casual reaction. Husk and Niffty were settling firmly into their own interpretations of what he'd done, he had no doubt, but this would have complicated matters.

‘Tch, I sure hope not, Cherri’s our art film director. I love her shit.’ Angel shut the door, crossing the room as he continued. ‘Her writers are all kids from the last twenty years, speak a _completely_ different language—‘ he paused, always knowing where someone’s eyes were, and raised a brow. He would have flirted, had it been Warren, or anyone else—but it was Al, and Angel didn’t wanna scare him. ‘Al,’ he said, ‘You want somethin, sweethart?’

Alastor blinked. He'd been miles away.

'I suppose so.' He propped his elbow on his knee and rested his chin on his loosely closed fist, regarding Angel thoughtfully now that he'd actually brought his gaze back to the other demon's face. 'But I'm not altogether sure what, or why.'

Angel leaned on the footboard bedpost on Al’s side of the bed, lower arms folded and upper arms wound around the bedpost. He tilted his head up, arching his back and using his middle pair of hands to fluff his tits, all the while watching Alastor with a sultry smile curling his lips.

‘Yeah?’ he said, not believing _that_ for a second. ‘You _sure_, Daddy?’ He dared the endearment, figured it was worth trying again.

Alastor's frustration was audible, a fragmented hiss of interference that earthed itself in Angel's back teeth. It served him right, Alastor supposed, trying to beat around the bush again. What was the worst that could happen? Perhaps he just didn't want Angel expecting more than he could give; but Angel had been understanding of his limits, and the peculiarities of them, thus far. He had to trust, as before, that Angel would take him at his word. He was _never_ going to get used to that.

'I want to touch you more...' Each drawn-out second pained him as he fumbled for a word. 'Comprehensively? Strictly on the outside, but whatever that is covering your skin, I want to feel it on mine.'

He had no idea if that would earn him a look of interest or distress. He was accustomed to getting the latter.

Angel had to take a moment to parse that, as usual; but when he realised, his smile, while wide, was softer as the mischief left it. He startled unbuttoning his jacket as he said, ‘You wanna _cuddle?_ Izzat it, Daddy?’

'Yes,' said Alastor, glad to have evaded the question of whether or not he was going to have to add that word to his vocabulary. 'Which... which might involve us both in, shall we say, something a little more than dishabille.' He undid his tie by way of explanation, letting the twist of black and red fabric hang loose about his neck. 'I don't know if I'll enjoy it or not,' he added. 'But I feel such a strong yearning to try.'

Angel shrugged off his jacket, let it fall to the floor, leaving him in boots and... well, black silk panties with a very classy bit of lace at the crotch (gusset, Head would say), because he’d been at work. He sat next to Alastor, reached over slowly to toy with Alastor’s tie, leaning in to murmur sweet and just a little of the lovey-dovey style that Angel loved, that dated him to his younger colleagues. 'Let me undress you, Daddy?'

Alastor's grin had a little wryness to it, which Angel, by now, might actually have been able to make out. He hadn't _thought_ getting rid of Valentino and Vox would be interpreted as a declaration of love, but that seemed to be how things had fallen out. And he had, as so torturously admitted, done it because he cared for Angel, so was it really incorrect? Maybe it was time for _Daddy_ after all. The Radio Demon wasn't concerned about his affection being exploited as a weak point; there were very few people who could really do anything to hurt him, and even fewer now that he'd finished digesting, adding Vox's and Valentino's power to his own. Perhaps that was the same arrogance that had gotten him killed in life, but it was a lot harder to kill him now.

He let Angel slide the tie from around his neck, holding himself still. 'Go right ahead.'

Angel leaned over to kiss Alastor's cheek, giving him time to move away if he wanted. 'Mind if I kiss ya ‘long the way?' he asked, in more serious tones, setting the tie aside on the bedspread.

Alastor considered the prospect, accepting the cheek kiss. 'You understand it may not elicit much in the way of passion? And I'd like you to keep it above the belt.'

Angel nodded. 'Yes, Daddy,' he said, thrilling at the words, at _choosing_ to say them, instead of being _required_ to. 'What about hickies an' runnin' my hands over your skin?' he asked. 'I... I want to give you _somethin'_, Alastor,' he said, and realised how much it ached, not understanding how to give sensual joy to his lover. He didn't understand, but he wanted to—but he also had a nagging suspicion he wasn't supposed to pry, either.

_It's not a transaction,_ Alastor almost said, and then had to take a moment to recover from the shock of almost having said it. He was a deal-maker. Everything in Hell, for him, was a transaction, even when no contract was physically (or metaphysically) signed. He was helping Charlie with the Hazbin in exchange for it being entertaining. And, in exchange for Angel instructing him, he was… what? Once he might have said tolerating things like touches and kisses, but that was clearly not true, with how respectful Angel was of what he did and and didn't like. Killing meddlesome overlords? He'd specifically explained that wasn't the case.

He reached up and cupped Angel's cheek in his hand, his talons long enough that the tips could gently rake the fluff on Angel's head, as he had done in the bath. He said, in complete honesty, 'You're giving me the experience of enjoying this for the first time. Of broadening my horizons. But, since you ask, you can touch me as well, under the same restrictions. Hickies—and isn't that a new-fangled word for the younger set!—will be taken under advisement.' He grinned. 'And I can't guarantee I won't bite back!'

Angel grinned, at that, and leaned into the touch, as he leaned into _all_ of Alastor’s touches, humming.

His lower pair of hands started slowly, delicately unbuttoning Alastor’s jacket and waistcoat, while the middle set slid beneath the fabric of his silk shirt, smoothing over his skin. Angel felt _electric_, finally allowed to _touch_ his lover without fabric between them, and gave a soft hum that was just on the threshold of a moan.

Alastor found himself arching his back a little, pressing against Angel’s fingers as Angel had done with his. He was more interested by Angel’s reaction than the sensation, though. ‘I have to admit,’ he said, ‘I didn’t think you’d like it _that_ much.’

‘There’s an old saying, among whores: _to give good head, enjoy giving head,’_ Angel said, pushing the clothes off Alastor’s shoulders, somewhat trapping his arms behind him as Angel’s lower hands hadn’t gotten to pulling the shirt from where it was tucked in, just yet.

Alastor shifted, tapping his fingers against the sheets, trying to figure out if he liked the feeling of being restrained by his own jacket, which hadn’t happened since he was alive, young, and disrobing in a hurry. It was amusing to pretend it could really do anything to encumber him. Did Angel find that appealing too? ‘I can appreciate the thrust of it, if not the particulars!’

Angel quickly finished with Alastor’s upper half, and, in keeping with the request, kept it there. The curiosity of what Alastor’s cock looked like ate at Angel, but he could resist it if it was a matter of consent. He leaned forward and pushed the sleeves the rest of the way down, now that the shirt was free of its moorings, and brought Alastor’s hands up to his lips, to kiss each one in turn, holding them. Three words trembled in his mouth, but were not yet ready to take flight, so he kept silent, looking into Alastor’s red eyes with his own for a moment or two.

‘I want you,’ Angel said, ‘but I want your pleasure more.’

Using Angel’s hold to pull him forward, Alastor settled Angel in his lap, resting his chin on Angel’s uppermost shoulder, and closed his eyes as he luxuriated in the feeling of getting what he wanted. Angel was, indeed, _incredibly_ soft. He stayed like that for a moment, then moved back enough that he and Angel could look at each other.

‘Then will you enjoy lying down with me like this, or would that be too much torment even for you?’

Angel touched his forehead with Alastor’s. ‘Torment me all ya want, Daddy, I’m game,’ he said, smiling like the lovesick fool he was. The songs were right, being in love _was_ swell….

‘I expect you to show me more ways to do that,’ Alastor replied, before pressing a fleeting kiss of his own to Angel’s hand and drawing him down, settling them both on the bed. He wrapped his arms around Angel, making a pleased sound as he ran his hands up and down Angel’s back. ‘Would you believe this was occupying the better part of my thoughts?’

Angel _purred_ at the stroking, burying his face in Alastor’s neck. ‘MmmmDaddy…’ he moaned, trying desperately not to squirm, not to frot against Alastor’s hips. He barely registered a question was being asked, it felt so good to feel Alastor touching him at last….

Alastor heard the undercurrent of need, felt the sudden tension in Angel. He hummed thoughtfully to himself, a different sound to Angel’s, more like a radio hovering between stations. After some deliberation, he flipped Angel over so that the spider’s back was against Alastor’s chest and stomach, and pulled down one of the many superfluous pillows, settling it against Angel’s hips.

‘There,’ he said, keeping his arm draped over Angel. ‘Work out what you’re feeling on that, and I’ll still hold you.’

Of course, no sooner had he worked out this solution than he wondered if Angel might like to be that pent up on purpose, allowed a modicum of touch that only made him crave more. Maybe he was warming up to this.

Angel smiled; it was always so bittersweet when lovers accepted his boyishness enough to forget that frotting against a pillow wouldn’t do much for him. If it had been anyone else, he would have thought it purposeful torment; but Alastor… well, it might be purposeful torment, even so—after all, Alastor _had_ known more than Angel had given him credit for, earlier…. Angel shifted again, laying against Alastor’s side, tucking close.

‘Stop me if this ain’t your style, but I just got an idea… you ever heard of a strap on harness, like for a dildo?’ He didn’t want a quip to derail the question, this time, so he was specific.

‘Not in as many words,’ Alastor said, ‘but it paints quite the vivid mental picture. What would you intend on doing with it?’

‘Does that fit the bill for, uh, distance? I’ve got one that uses a thigh-strap, rather than one that goes around the hips. It’s more comfortable that way, and the wearer gets more control,’ he added, with just a touch of emphasis.

Alastor picked up on that, and appreciated it, even if Angel wasn’t in the best position to see his smile. ‘It wouldn’t be… less fulfilling not to be, as it were, joined at the hip?’ He liked having Angel pressed close to him, he was finding, at least like this, and so he was willing to entertain the idea.

Angel reared back, almost saying _What? no, of course not!_ before checking himself, and saying instead, ‘No, sweethart,’ tracing circles in the centre of Alastor’s chest. ‘Some of my favourite partners don’t have a cock of their own, and Spicy’s hips are too wide to straddle, even for my legs.’

‘Well, that’s good to hear,’ Alastor said, not trying to hide his relief. ‘I want you to get your fair share of pleasure, too, you know—more than you can handle, if I have anything to say about it!’

He reached down, guided Angel’s legs to rest on either side of his thigh, and kept his hand at the small of Angel’s back, adjusting to how that felt. After a moment, he moved his leg slowly, imagining he was pedalling a bicycle to get the muscles to flex without reminding him of his earlier, largely disappointing attempts. He thought back to their lesson, of the tentacle and his glimpse of Angel’s dizzying assortment of dildos, trying to combine that with what he was doing now. ‘Do I get to pick which one gets strapped in, or is that your prerogative?’

Angel didn’t let his hips down as far as he would have liked, predicting that Alastor may not like his clothes having spots on them; it wasn’t exactly tempting to let go of that control, but it was certainly something he _wanted_, which was why he voiced it. ‘Your choice, Daddy. …Are you implying I’m allowed to frot against your thigh right now, Daddy? _Really?_ No foolin?’

He said it sweetly again, just a little of the coquettish flash in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders. He would have flipped his hair, had he been wearing it longer than it currently was, just to complete the effect.

‘Is that what it’s called? Because it’s exactly what I’m implying.’ Alastor moved his hand so he could stroke his fingers properly through Angel’s fur. ‘I want to see if I find it unpleasant.’ He was silent for a moment, reflecting that he was glad Angel seemed to take arousal from his words according to his own internal rules, then added, ‘I’m not going to lure you into thinking something is permissible and then punish you for trying it.’

His eyes brightened as he wondered if that was one more thing to lay at Valentino’s door.

The pimp hadn’t even had the decency to taste very good.

Angel’s expression said the comment had hit home, as did the way the smile fell from his face so fast one could almost hear it hit the floor; but he caught it quickly enough, putting it back on and getting on with the show. It illustrated to Alastor that they were both show people, regardless of one being in cabaret, and one being in vaudeville.

Angel slowly lowered himself down, glad the silky material of his panties was between them, as Alastor’s suit pants were not something you wanted on something as sensitive as your cunt. Getting comfortable was a lot easier with six arms to hold you up, and Angel was soon sliding his hips forward and back, slowly at first, finding his bearings. ‘Go ‘head and pet me some more, Daddy,’ he pleaded. ‘You pet so nice.’

Alastor did, entertaining himself by trying to keep his movements in time with Angel’s. Even through two layers of fabric, he could feel the concentrated heat between Angel’s thighs, more than any friction could create. It was a little startling, but not something that made him want to pull away.

‘Does it feel good?’ he wanted to know, curious.

Angel had been biting his lip to keep himself from making noise, but at that comment he let everything out, moaning. ‘Does it _ever_, oh, _Daddy_, please don’t eva _stop!’_

His accent was thicker, which was a sure sign that he was telling the truth, as any of his friends would have told Alastor, had they heard it. Whenever Cherri felt like doing Noir, which wasn’t infrequent, she always made sure Angel was partnered with Warren, or another co-star he genuinely liked, to make sure the accent—and the moans—were genuine. Alastor was enjoying a privilege few in Hell had—that of witnessing the great Angel Dust in _earnest_ pleasure, as the spider writhed atop him, moaning, sighing, and letting forth such _wickedness_.

‘Daddy, oh, god, you dunno how _much_ I’ve wanted your hands all over me… ffffuck, I c’n just _imagine_ what it’s gonna feel like with my toy…’ he trailed off, realising _he had all his stuff_. His eyes snapped open like he’d been given a vision by God himself. ‘Say, Alastor?’ he said, breathless but strangely, suddenly calm (other than the fact that he sounded straight out of New York). ‘How’s about we try that harness’a mine right now?’

‘Well, I suppose there’s no better way of finding out how I feel about it!’ Alastor was feeling distinctly giddy, and while he wasn’t sure if it was Angel’s mood being infectious or the fascination of causing so much pleasure with what seemed to him to be such little gestures, he wanted to see where the feeling would take him. He gave Angel a last, teasing little stroke, then took his hands away. ‘Why don’t you go get it, and a selection of fillings for me to browse?’

The speed at which Angel disappeared reminded one just how araneiform he was, inside and out, and he returned with something that looked like a well-cared-for belt of pink leather with a brass ring in the middle of it, and a trio of sleek-lined, elegantly red toys that glittered in the light from Alastor’s eyes. They were all elegant stylisations of a cock shape. One flared out to a larger girth at the tip, one curved slightly, and one was larger than the other two overall. They looked all part of a set, and Angel thought Alastor would likely react better to classier toys that were also his favourite colour. Lucky for Angel, red was a colour of toy he had in abundance.

He _quivered_ with anticipation, holding the leather strap-on in his middle pair of hands, as the lower ones twisted together and the upper ones clasped hard behind his back. He tried not to rock back on his heels with eagerness, practically _salivating_.

Alastor studied the offerings, then plucked at the hem of his pants. ‘Would it be a better fit if I took these off?’

He was _nervous,_ he realised, and that was a sensation he hadn’t had in so long that it was practically brand-new.

Angel thought about it. ‘No,’ he said, truthfully. ‘It’s more comfortable for you if they’re on. Less chafing.’ He didn’t say anything about Alastor’s nerves; that, he didn’t know.

‘Next question, then! Do you want to put this on me, since you took such joy in removing my other garments?’ Alastor stretched his leg out in front of him, wagging a hoof back and forth. (Most people thought he was wearing interestingly shaped shoes. Most people were wrong.) ‘I’m always one to shirk whatever I can!’

Angel slipped his favourite starter, the curved one, through the brass ring, and buckled it around Alastor’s thigh. He slipped his panties off his hips, resisting the urge to show off his ass, knowing this partner wouldn’t really appreciate the strip-tease, and straddled Alastor’s leg, middle hands on Alastor’s shoulders for balance, upper ones gently trying to see if they were allowed to card through his red hair, lower ones steadying the toy as Angel slid hips down on it. He was so wet, so ready for this… it was almost to the point where this toy felt too small…

‘Daddy…’ he breathed, and it sounded _luscious_.

Alastor let Angel touch his hair, at first because he supposed turnabout was fair play, but finding he liked how it felt. He liked the look on Angel’s face, too, relaxed and rapturous. He hadn’t been able to properly appreciate it last time, with the larger part of his attention devoted to controlling the tentacles. He settled back, hands behind his head, though not so far that Angel couldn’t reach him, and did his bike-riding motions again, working out the rhythm. After he’d settled into it, something occurred to him, and his smile widened at a frighteningly slow pace. ‘May I give you more commands?’

Angel was moving with him, and managing to make it look like a dance, letting the motion roll up his entire body. ‘Mmmm…. command me all you want, Daddy-man,’ he said, moving when Alastor lay down so that he stayed upright, lower hands steadying him, middle ones always his favourite pair for playing with his tits. The upper ones reached back, steadying him on the other side.

He wondered what Alastor would do next, though every thrust was just perfect, Alastor not moving too fast, or too much, seeming to have the advantage over his sexual colleagues in that he was more interested in _Angel_ than in _sex_.

Huh, Angel wondered if that was one of those ironic things….

‘Excellent!’ said Alastor. He drew it out a little longer, delivered a few more thrusts that made Angel gasp, and then said, ‘Dismount. Take this one out, and replace it with…’ He pointed at the largest of the three. ‘Oh, that one. I imagine the intermission will be _agonisingly_ fun!’

Angel groaned. ‘Awww _Daddy_, I don’t wanna _stop_…’ He kept thrusting, wanting to know what Alastor would do, and always being one to push his limits. Would he get to know just how strong Alastor was, as the other sinner physically stopped him? And _how_ would Alastor do that? Would he hold Angel down, would he lift him off, would he _throw_ him, would he use those tentacles? Angel wanted to know what shape discipline took, and maybe that showed a disturbingly weak sense of self-preservation; but Angel had always been more curious than wise.

‘Of course you don’t!’ Alastor’s laughter had echoes, the suggestion of an entire studio audience. ‘I wouldn’t have said it otherwise!’ Those scarlet symbols returned, burning themselves into the air, and Alastor lifted one hand slowly off the bed. Angel found himself rising, invisible, inexorable force gripping him from above, until he was held spread-eagled above the bed, able to look down and see Alastor’s grin. He could see how the glow of it made the dildo glisten, the toy slick with the same juices now running down the inside of his thigh.

‘Now,’ Alastor said, ‘how about making that switch?’

Direction didn’t matter much to Angel anymore, now that he was a spider, and being in mid-air was actually more comforting than alarming—he’d mentioned that once on set, and Spicy had excitedly told him it was likely because he was a ‘creature of air’, which had startled more than a few people, who had thought of spiders as creeping, terrestrial creatures.

Angel relented, but more cheerfully than he remembered doing in recent memory.

‘Okay, Daddy, whatevah ya want,’ he said sweetly. So far, Alastor hadn’t protested, and Angel was soaring on the high of it. Alastor was more of a Daddy than Val had ever been, and _deserved _the title.

‘Good of you to mention it! It just so happens there’s a little something extra I want now.’ Alastor lowered Angel down, right beside the dildos. ‘Put the biggest one in, as I said… and then wait an extra minute before you get back in the saddle, because you didn’t listen.

‘Is that… acceptable?’ He cocked his head, the tenor of his smile changing as his eyes became briefly serious. ‘If you don’t like me punishing you, then we won’t, but it seemed a natural extension.’

‘It’s perfect.’ Angel said, blushing and unable to stop smiling, as he went to unbuckle the harness, so he could change out the toys. With the new one buckled securely back onto Alastor’s thigh, Angel waited an extra minute, watching the clock on his nightstand to make sure, before lubing the toy up and getting back in the saddle.

He bit his lip as he lowered himself down, the slide and stretch so good, so perfect. ‘Ya… ya want I should tell ya how it feels?’ he asked, breathless, wondering if Alastor was watching it sink inside him, _hoping_ he was, because the very idea made him hotter….

Alastor cupped his cheek again, then trailed a finger teasingly down his jaw before chucking him under the chin. ‘Of course!’ He punctuated it with a thrust, pushing in the last little bit Angel hadn’t gotten to yet. ‘I’m here to learn, after all!’

‘Ahh, fuck, it’s _so_ good—it’s always like an itch that needs scratchin, and even if I gotta work up to somethin’ this big—it’s… always what I _need_….’ He hoped Alastor would file that away, he really loved being told by a Top that being full was what he needed. ‘I can feel this in the back’a my throat, I sweah….’

‘I’ll assume that’s a good thing!’ Alastor got that speculative look again, though it didn’t stop him from moving. ‘If you had another one in your mouth, would they meet in the middle?’

‘There’s a kink for that,’ Angel said, going from moaning mess to thoughtfully focussed. ‘It’s called "through-and-through", usually done with tentacles.’

‘How fortuitous! I’ll keep that in mind!’

The carpet was momentarily drenched in red light, and a tentacle reared up to wave at Angel before vanishing again.

‘But, for now, I’ll keep scratching your itch!’ He was enjoying this, he realised. It was very satisfying how his movements translated into heightening Angel’s pleasure, and the reminder that he was in control hung between them, making each thrust precious, because he might choose to pull Angel away again at any time.

Angel smirked. ‘Tease,’ he said, pouting for a moment, before leaning down. ‘Can I kiss ya, Alastor?’ he asked. ‘Romantic, this time,’ he added, reaching up his upper right hand to caress Alastor’s hair, looking tenderly into his rose-coloured eyes. He was really very _pretty_, with delicate features, and cheekbones that you could slit a wrist on….

Alastor looked fond, before that was overwritten somewhat with faint dismay. ‘Does "romantic" involve tongues? They’re so slippery crashing together, and I feel like a snapper trying to catch a fish.’

Angel Dust cupped his lover’s face tenderly. ‘No, more like a dance. Just observe, and take your time, before followin’ my lead.’ He leaned in, taking his time, and touched his lips to Alastor’s, moving slowly, enjoying the kiss the way he enjoyed anything in or on his mouth, his hands stroking through Alastor’s hair, moving his hips gently back and forth, the pleasure of the toy making the kiss so much better.

For a long few moments, Alastor was perfectly still, not even moving the toy, and more silent than he had ever been. There wasn’t even a hint of static in Angel’s ears, only the soft noises his cunt made on the toy and the pounding of his own heart.

Then Alastor pressed his lips back to Angel’s, delicate and cautious, as though mimicking the steps of a dance without fully comprehending how they fit together. When he’d been alive, the few times he’d seduced someone (or let someone think he was seducing them), he’d neatly sidestepped the whole process, because didn’t they want to cut the tongue-wagging and get down to business?

But he could feel how much Angel loved this, and it made him want to try.

Angel always took kisses slow and easy, like summer evenings. His tongue didn’t come into play for a long time, his lips just memorising the shape of Alastor’s, before the very tip of his tongue gently, softly traced Alastor’s lower lip, and the feeling of it was electric. There was a soft click as Angel pulled back, and smiled. Alastor hadn’t exactly dead-fished him, he’d just… frozen, like a deer in headlights.

Still cupping his lover’s face with his upper pair of hands, Angel stroked Alastor’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. ‘You okay, sweethart?’

Angel was aware that his kisses were usually unlike anybody else’s, because he genuinely _enjoyed_ kissing.

‘I was observing,’ Alastor said, sounding a little wounded. ‘I’m all right, it’s just that…’ He sighed. ‘I’ve always preferred things to which I’ve taken naturally. Radio, cooking, murder, you know! It’s not often that I find myself so out of my element, especially not because I’ve put myself there. I like the thrill of not knowing what’s going to happen next, as long as I know what _I_ can do. I don’t know how to do this, and some part of me resents having to be led by the hand. Or the lips.’

Angel kissed his nose. ‘Sweethart, I wanted to make sure you were still okay with this,’ he said, leaning his forehead against Alastor’s gently, stilling his hips and just enjoying the closeness. ‘Don’t worry about whatcha don’t know; ‘s whatcha got me for, ain’t it?’ He grinned. ‘Best teacher on the subject money can buy—not that _you_ gotta pay.’

‘You’re going to be rich on your own soon enough,’ Alastor said, with the casual fondness of one who got most things for free given the sheer amount of terror he inspired (he did tip well, though). ‘And I’m not in any distress.’ But that wasn’t the same thing as enjoyment, and he and Angel both knew it. He appreciated the effort Angel was putting forth, but his own frustration at not being able to respond in kind was too strong to be pushed aside.

He twisted his head, such that it was best not to look too closely at how his neck moved, and nipped lightly at Angel’s jaw. ‘I may just not be the kissing type.’

Angel got an idea from that little nip, and smiled anew, ‘I got an idea…’ he said, thoughtful, and leaned down, putting his neck in reach of that mouth. ‘Bite me. Just a little nip. See if ya like that better.’

He left it open, because, well, he wanted to see what would happen. Would Alastor bite him playfully, like cats and dogs did? Or would he _bite_, break skin? Either way, it’d feel good if it were right there in the bend of his shoulder and neck.

Alastor supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, given Angel’s history with Lord Sinuous, but he was tickled to know that Angel still wanted Alastor’s teeth anywhere near his flesh. ‘And if I like it too much?’ he couldn’t help asking.

Angel’s voice was soft by his ear, and Alastor got his first taste of what Angel might be like, in full Dom mode.

‘Then… we plan a dinner date,’ he whispered.

‘Ah! _Naughty!_’ Alastor actually shivered with excitement, and the movement travelled through his whole body, making the toy twitch inside Angel. ‘Well, let me just see if I like the house special first!’ And he bit. Hard.

Angel’s pleasure was magnified at that shiver, at knowing he’d _finally_ figured something out. And the bite made him gasp, those sharp teeth hurting so, so good… ‘Nnn, _harder_, Daddy!’

There had been times, usually with the errant vampire surgeon that somehow managed to come down here, that Angel had indulged in exploring aspects of kink that were completely impossible for a mortal to recover from: Being drained of blood, being vivisected, being _altered_… and Angel, with the right partner, _loved_ it. Loved _controlled_ and _elegant_ violence, loved a lover who _enjoyed_ his body in new and interesting ways, invented new forms of intimacy, pushed his body to extremes.

Knowing Alastor _consumed_ other demons, well, what was it Dr Scarpa always said? _In a way, consuming someone is a most intimate act—perhaps more physically intimate than fucking them._

Alastor was all too happy to oblige, biting deeper into Angel’s shoulder simply because there was more there to sink his teeth into. He was used to hearing begging at times like these, but never for _more._ It was deliciously perverse.

His fangs had edges like sheet metal, cutting clean and sure, and he drew blood without even trying, drawing back to lick at it before he got carried away.

‘My goodness!’ he said. ‘Well, nothing of the kind, but that was momentous!’ His eyes were neon-brilliant as he looked up at Angel, glowing like exit signs in a dark hall. ‘Tell me how _that_ felt!’

Angel was heart-eyed and dreamy. ‘More…’ he said, dazed and not calculating, not thinking twice about his virgin and very dangerous lover. His cunt was doing the thinking, now.

Alastor very nearly took that as carte blanche (which would shortly be carte _rouge_, if he had anything to say about it!), but just in time he remembered their discussion about rules. He grabbed Angel’s chin in his hand, forcing their eyes to meet, or at least be in the general vicinity. ‘Tell me what you mean when you say _more,_ Angel Dust! Or, if it’s easier, tell me what I _can’t_ do!’

There was real hunger in his voice, audible even through the static snapping at the words, and his tongue swiped over his teeth again, desperate for whatever he could get in the interim.

Angel saw it, _loved_ it—this was what he’d been looking for, this was the revelation at the end of the blind dart game of How To Turn Alastor On. This was it. He just needed to eat somebody. Well, Angel could be that somebody….

‘Go ahead and take a bite, have a whole mouthful if ya want. Just leave me my voice, and go slow, beyond that, so I can tell you when to stop, okay?’

Alastor wasn’t the only one that wanted to skip negotiations; Angel was trembling, eyes dilated like he was high on something—except he wasn’t, not on _drugs_, anyway. He was on his favourite high: Pleasing Daddy.

‘I never rush! It’s a disservice to the meal!’ Distantly, Alastor was aware he was still full from Valentino and Vox, but he wasn’t _devouring_ Angel, he was just having a little snack. Just sampling. That wasn’t the same as actually eating someone—it wouldn’t take away any of Angel’s power, for one thing—but his taste buds didn’t care about the difference. He wanted more just as much as Angel did, and oh, that thought was never going to wear out its welcome, was it?

He switched to Angel’s other shoulder, wanting him to have the experience from the top, and this time he let his jaws meet. True to his word, he drew back very slowly, so that Angel could feel the chunk of meat tearing free, and chewed at first with distinct theatricality until his eyes rolled upwards in bliss, chin dripping gore onto his bare chest.

Angel leaned a little more heavily on his other arms, but that was the beauty of having other arms—it meant when the muscles to his upper ones were severed or damaged, he could still function. The pain was sharp and sweet and the bruising was delicious, and he leaned down to lick his own watery blood from Alastor’s face with tiny, teasing swipes of his tongue.

Alastor had, perhaps by design, missed his major arteries, for which Angel was grateful—it meant he could stay conscious, enjoy the sensations mixing in his brain—the pain from the bites, the pleasure from the toy and from the sheer joy of _pleasing_ Alastor, of seeing that look on his face, that unguarded bliss….

‘You look beautiful, like this, Daddy…’ he said in that same trembling, velvety whisper, half seduced and half seducing.

‘Darling, I could say the same for you!’ Alastor nuzzled Angel’s neck, uncaring of how it made Angel’s fur stick to his wet face, before leaning back on his elbows and looking Angel over. ‘Where next, I wonder? I suppose you’d like to stay in that position…’ He flexed his leg, realising he had all but forgotten their prior attachment.

Angel bit his lip, moaning. ‘AAhhh-h, yes, _Daddy_, yes, more, _please!’_ The toy was plenty slick, and soft, and _big_, and it felt _delicious_, sending shocks of pleasure from his hips down his thighs and up his core, which nicely combined with the endorphin rush from the pain. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure if the question was rhetorical or not, and didn’t have an answer anyway—he’d never been _eaten_ before, not like this. Scarpa was a vampire, the only eating he did was blood….

Alastor responded by bending Angel almost double and pulling him forward, off the toy a little way, and biting into his side. Then he withdrew once more, letting Angel slide back down fully onto the dildo, filling him up even as he came back missing another piece. Alastor could appreciate the contrast of it. ‘Careful!’ he said, swallowing (he _never_ spoke with his mouth full). ‘You’ll run out of _more_ long before I do, I suspect!’

The blood, Alastor was starting to realise, wasn’t quite what he was used to—it was watery, and the skin had a bit of a snap to it, like it was made of harder stuff than skin. Of course, Angel was a spider….

Angel moaned again, panting. ‘Again, more,’ he begged, blushing and breathless, tongue almost hanging out.

‘If you insist! You’re a very easily acquired taste, I have to say!’ Alastor was grateful for the blood coating his mouth, even for the shreds caught in his teeth that would have annoyed him at any other time, because they reminded him this was real, this was happening, and had _anything_ ever felt like this? ‘You know, Lord Sinuous sent me a cake, but he really didn’t need to go to all the trouble! Though I do wonder how you’d pair…’

Angel laughed fondly at the sense-memory of a cake from Lord Sinuous. ‘Ahh, you should try it, his cakes are _so_ good….’ He wondered what kind Alastor had been sent. Lord Sinuous always sent Angel strawberry pink champagne cakes, because those were Angel’s favourite.

He was bucking on the toy again, watching Alastor’s face, devouring the expressions, the tones, of bliss, of pleasure, as much as Alastor was devouring _him_….

‘I prefer savoury to sweet,’ Alastor said, ‘and it can’t be better than you.’ He was oddly hushed at the end of it, and looked tenderly at Angel before punctuating his words with another bite, this one deeper and more lingering. Eating other demons had always been a formality, when it came down to it, a way to ensure he didn’t leave enemies behind. His enjoyment had seemed incidental, a nice bonus, and even then he’d had a few meals that were real chores to finish. He’d never done it just because it felt _good._

After another moan, Angel gave a shaky laugh, ‘I should introduce ya to Doctor Scarpa, then…’ he said, covered in pinkish blood and starting to feel pleasantly dizzy, coolness stealing over him. ‘Lay me down, Daddy, I’m gettin’ faint…’ Indeed, his grip had been weakening, and he swayed a little.

Carefully, Alastor eased Angel off the toy, settling him back into the place he’d formerly occupied at Alastor’s side. Niffty would make a fuss about the sheets, but just then Alastor couldn’t have cared less. ‘Can I get you anything?’ He started to try and unbuckle the harness, failed, and gestured so that it vanished and reappeared, open, a few inches away. ‘Is the glass of water customary?’

‘Usually, but, ah, y’know what, gimmie my phone, I’m gonna call somebody to help… ya feel like eatin’ organs? Any more chunks outta me and there won’t be much left but pullin’ arms off—an’ believe me, that’s… that’s weird and messy.’

He didn’t, he’d found out shortly after getting here, have _bones_ in his arms and legs. Not on the outside, anyway. He also had the urge to pull them off if they got hurt in any way, which was why he was grateful Alastor hadn’t taken a bite out of any. He preferred torso work anyway….

Fuck, he was really doing this. They were really gonna do this….


	13. Or Maybe A Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surgical gore~!

‘Why, Angel Dust, I thought you’d never ask!’ Alastor trailed a talon down Angel’s belly before going to retrieve the phone, though he didn’t immediately hand it over. ‘Who, might I ask, are you planning on dialling?’

‘Scarpa. He loves cuttin’ me open. An’ I know you ain’t a surgeon.’ Angel figured if Alastor had a problem with Angel wanting a professional to do that bit, he’d say something and they could work it out. But Angel preferred surgeons messing around with his insides, for the moment.

‘I may not be, but I’ve dabbled enough to consider myself something of a dab hand, nonetheless! Unless you mean the part where you get put back together afterwards.’ Alastor sighed. ‘Call me old-fashioned, but the idea of involving someone else, even in a largely clinical capacity, doesn’t sit too well. I prefer this to stay between us.’

Angel thought on it. ‘…See, I’m not good with ya cuttin’ me open, just yet, sweethart,’ he said, gentle but not apologetic. ‘I’d rather somebody I trust do that part, for now; but I wanna share myself with ya, all the same. Scarpa ain’t a resident of Hell, and he ain’t political, neither, if that makes ya feel better about it.’

He wondered if it occurred to Alastor that other people might have partaken in Angel before. He wondered if Alastor would feel possessive, in that sense. This was a new side of his lover, and like all the other sides so far, it was uncharted and unpredictable—but, unlike the others, this one seemed far more… emotional. That was good when it was good, but it could go sour fast…

Alastor canted his head, at what Angel now knew was a thoughtful angle instead of one of the purposefully unnerving ones. ‘Not a resident of Hell, that _is_ interesting! Travel is so tightly controlled!’ He was playing idly with the hellphone, but his eyes were still on Angel—more precisely, on Angel’s midsection. He had bitten so tantalisingly close… ‘Will he be expecting to dine with us?’

He knew what answer he wanted, he realised. He could tolerate someone else assisting if it made Angel feel more comfortable, but he was very much not in the mood to be a gracious host. This was _his_ to enjoy.

Angel knew that green-eyed look; it used to give him feelings that he thought were good, but he knew better, now. Even weakened, he stood firm—perhaps Alastor’s actions had made it so. Perhaps Alastor himself was why Angel felt stronger now, than he ever had.

‘Scarpa’s an old friend’a the Family,’ he said, guarded, and Alastor could tell something had changed—he wasn’t talking to Angel Dust, Lover of Alastor anymore, he was talking to an Overlord. ‘He’s sipped my blood more times than I can count—and he’ll do it again, if I desire it. My body is my own, Alastor, it doesn’t _belong_ to you.’ _It doesn’t belong to anyone. Not anymore. Not ever again,_ he added, silently.

Alastor’s eyes dimmed as he fully understood what conclusions he’d jumped to, his smile gone small and taut. ‘It doesn’t,’ he agreed. Just because Angel had been the first to offer himself like this, it didn’t mean he could _only_ do so to Alastor. He’d just felt…

_He_ had impressed Angel, _he_ had won him over, Angel had _chosen_ him. Something inside him was all too eager to defend that, to show all comers that he was the best. Was this what Angel had been expecting when he said they couldn’t be exclusive, and Alastor was only experiencing it now?

‘Well,’ he said, ‘what’s a little blood between friends?’

It probably shouldn’t have made him feel better that only he got to _eat_ Angel, but there it was. Now that he knew he was capable of these feelings, he could deal with them suddenly barging in. He had a pretty good track record so far.

Angel relaxed a little. ‘You’ll like him,’ he said, mostly sure of it. ‘He’s got a great smile.’ That was also true—even if most people ran screaming from it. Then again, that was exactly what they did from Alastor’s smile. ‘Maybe instead’a kisses, you give me little nips—nothin’ so big as these, but maybe…? You know, little ones, like when a cat likes ya?’ He wanted to say _c’mere, gimmie a kiss_ because that would make him feel better, like their sticky spot was past… but Alastor didn’t like kisses; so, they had to compromise.

Curiosity brightened Alastor’s face and broadened his smile, and he climbed back on the bed, handing the hellphone to Angel. ‘Shall I try and work that out now?’

It had been a while since he’d been around cats, but he had fond memories of the strays of New Orleans. Cats had always liked him, just as surely as dogs hadn’t. In both cases, the feelings had been mutual.

Angel smiled at him. ‘If ya promise not to draw blood, you can bite me as much as you want, gattino,’ he said warmly, reaching up with one of his lower hands to stroke Alastor’s hair.

‘I love you,’ he said, surprised at hearing it, but letting it lie. After all, he was a man of strong feelings, and about to introduce Alastor to the closest thing he had to a father or mother, besides.

He scrolled through his contacts, pausing on Valentino and, with pleasure, deleting him, before scrolling back up, to the only mortal number he had.

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘Scarpa, it’s Bracchiamontis. How ya been?’

Alastor was leaning in for a nip before the words really sunk in, and sat there with his mouth slightly open, stunned. Angel loved him? How had that happened? Weighting down _like_ with all kinds of implications had meant he hadn’t had to think about it.

More importantly, did this mishmash of feelings that threatened to overwhelm him amount to the same thing?

He shook himself, and bit Angel’s cheek lightly, on the side of his face not pressed to the phone.

Angel giggled. ‘Yeah? Feel like comin’ down to cut me open?’

_‘When?’ _

‘Now, if yer free. Gotta—’ another giggle. ‘Boyfriend here that has your taste in—’ Giggle. ‘Intimacy.’

_‘Ah. How much have you allowed him to cut you already, ragazzaccio? And what have you taken?’_

Alastor lifted his head, interested. ‘Does he mean pharmaceutically, or that I let you return the favour?’ That, like so much else in the past little while, had never occurred to him. He also liked the timbre of the voice that had suggested it, the cadence. Perhaps this Scarpa would be less of an intrusion than he had originally thought.

‘Ain’t taken nothin’, Lord Sinuous gave me a love bite yestaday, an’ boyfriend’s bitten a few chunks outta me.’ Hell, was it only yesterday that he was visiting Lord Sinuous? ‘So… you can come?’

_‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world, ragazzaccio.’ _

‘I’m not at the Studio, I’m at this hotel on Water and Dust. Can’t miss it.’

_‘I look forward to meeting this ragazzo, Angelo.’_

Angel blushed, feeling warm and cared for by that tone; he knew that Scarpa understood he was family, now, and took the role seriously.

‘Yeah,’ he said, quieter. ‘Well uh, he’s not Italian, but he’s a good guy anyway. He’s in radio.’ He knew that Scarpa would have less clue of who the Radio Demon was than Angel had, and would care even less.

Normally that would have made Alastor laugh, but he was too busy being thunderstruck yet again.

_Yesterday?_ All of this had happened since _yesterday?_ Angel had decided he loved Alastor since _yesterday?_

As a mortal, Alastor had been scrupulous about time, a lifelong habit that had become a necessity once he got into radio. In Hell, it was all too easy to let that slide, when you actually thought about it and realised the futility of partitioning eternity. One day was much like the next, even more than it had been in his more boring moments on earth. People clung to measuring time down here because they didn’t want to let it go; they still took comfort in how many days or years it had been since something or other, or how long it might be until something else. Even the peerage, who had never been human, were susceptible, though they counted in centuries or millennia. For Alastor, keeping track of time had only served to show him how little was really happening. Now everything seemed to be happening at once.

_Yesterday?_

For the Fallen, timelessness meant everything was patience and biding; for Angel, it meant you didn’t wait on anything. Maybe that was because he’d lost so many people to exterminations before even dying, and the loss still haunted him; but a line from a movie Pixie had watched with him really sat with him, even now. He woulda asked one of his sisters to put it on a sampler or something, really.

_All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us._

Angel lived by that. You never knew when life would end for good, so you lived every day, by God, you _lived_ it; and you _loved_ people, and you didn’t hold that back, you didn’t push away or hold at arm’s length, you clung to what you had, who you had. You made a home right here, right now. It wasn’t a bleak outlook; it was more a determined optimism in the face of unconscionable adversity.

Angel hung up, and set the phone aside.

‘Well, I like those little bites, how ‘bout you, huh?’ he asked Alastor playfully.

Alastor blinked. Angel’s voice—he’d found Angel’s voice grating before _yesterday_—had dragged him backwards out of his philosophical meanderings, and now he had to adjust to being in the present. Being there _with Angel,_ who had shown him so many things, whose taste was still in his mouth.

He took a deep breath and said, very fast:

‘I want to say I love you as well but I thought it was supposed to take longer and I don’t exactly know what it is I’m feeling and it’s immensely confusing and I would have been perfectly fine with lying to you a day ago and—’

He ran out of words, stopping as abruptly as though someone had turned a dial, and Angel saw something on his face that _wasn’t a smile_ as he knuckled his forehead in frustration.

Angel couldn’t exactly sit up—he wasn’t losing blood so quickly anymore, but he was a bit out of commission.

‘Hey, hey, c’mere, sweethart, take a breath before ya turn blue,’ he said, and reached the nearest hand to Alastor, gently touching his face, marvelling that they’d gone from having to ask all the time to simply being allowed. ‘Just let it be, don’t think too hard about it. Life’s too short, y’know?’

‘We have a year before we have to be reminded of that!’ Alastor was back to his usual self just a shade too quickly for it to be genuine. ‘Provided you don’t do anything horrendously stupid in the meantime! Which, although I am more inclined to rule out, I can’t eliminate entirely!’

‘Ass,’ Angel said, laughing—a little weaker than normal, but not by much. He lay back, letting his eyes close. ‘I needta rest, you can stay if ya want.’ He’d need food later, but the regeneration seemed to want rest before sustenance, at least for Angel.

He opened an eye. ‘If ya really don’t want the cake, I’ll have it. But I hope ya try just a little bit before ya decide.’

‘That’s precisely what I’m doing right now!’ Alastor flopped down next to Angel and, after a moment’s hesitation, put an arm around him, carefully avoiding the wounds he’d left. ‘But I was thinking we’d split it, seeing as you’ll need to keep your strength up!’

He’d meant to watch Angel’s flesh knitting itself closed, as it seemed a fascinating prospect, but before he knew it his eyelids were drooping. He’d found the remaining part of the bed that wasn’t sticky, and Angel was soft beside him, and while Alastor had initially been very annoyed to find that his immortal self still functioned better with sleep, it seemed less of a waste now….

.xOo.

Down in the lobby, things were pretty peaceful; there was a knock at the door, polite and quiet, and Charlie answered it, hoping for a new client, to find a mortal. Or, not a mortal but… someone with _flesh_. Someone from _Upstairs_. He was dressed in black, and carried a doctor’s bag with him. He smiled, small but pleasant, and spoke around fangs.

‘I am here for an appointment with Angel Dust.’ His voice was strident and smooth, a very different kind of radio voice than Alastor’s. Where Alastor’s was from the era when lower frequencies weren’t picked up by microphones, Scarpa’s voice was made for more modern purposes, low and smooth.

Charlie stared, then dragged a hand slowly down her face.

‘You know what,’ she said, standing aside, ‘fine. I’m just going to pretend he called you because of withdrawal from Lord Sinuous’ venom, because right now I would really like to live in a world where things made sense like that.’

Was anyone ever going to check into the hotel because they _meant_ it? Vaggie had had a long talk with her after the news of Angel acquiring the Studio had gotten out, and she’d had to admit she had been so elated to have anyone at all that she hadn’t pressed him too much on things like sincerity or commitment. Also, she just… didn’t like Upstairs people. They made her uncomfortable.

A soft chuckle, pleasant and Villainous, and a long hand, with too many joints to the long and beautiful fingers, rested on her shoulder. ‘My dear, I am a _surgeon_, not a toxicologist,’ he said, and patted her shoulder gently, paternally.

Vaggie… wasn’t getting bad vibes off this guy. He was a vampire, and a weird vampire at that, but she’d… she had met a weird vampire guy before. He came here a lot, she’d seen him around—always looking different, but there weren’t any other vampires that came to Hell, or had that voice.

‘Uh, hey,’ she said, waving. ‘Never caught your name, but uh… you complimented my… lack of eye… once?’

‘I recall,’ Scarpa said, smiling pleasantly. ‘If you want more, just let me know, eyes are something I so rarely get to work with.’

‘Aaaaand would you look at that, I’ve heard enough.’ Charlie gingerly removed the hand from her shoulder, something about her posture suggesting she half expected it to detach itself at the wrist and leap at her face, and backed away. ‘I’m gonna go look over our accounts and pretend that means something.’ Her voice had gone high and tight, a stretched-thin mask of her usual buoyant attitude, and her hand trembled a little as she gave a thumbs-up. ‘Scream if you need me!’

What did Angel need a surgeon for? She’d thought he was happy with the way his body was now. _Don’t think about it,_ she told herself. _It’s easier if you don’t think about it._

Scarpa watched her go with a puzzled expression. ‘Jumpy young woman, for a resident of Hell,’ he commented.

‘Yeah, says you an’ everyone else,’ Husk said, from the bar, mixing himself an old-fashioned. ‘Sheltered little princess.’

‘Husk!’ Vaggie said.

‘What? Is she not a princess?’

Scarpa raised a brow, even as he crossed the lobby to the elevators. A squeamish princess of Hell? No wonder things were so chaotic, around here… even as grating as the princess of his own city was, at least she was not _nervous_….

.oXo.

Alastor woke all at once, as he always did, and was momentarily baffled to find Angel nestled against him—and himself bare to the waist—before he remembered what had happened. That was one of the things he liked least about sleep, that moment of disorientation when you stopped doing it.

The room still smelled pleasantly of blood, underscored with a pungent note Alastor now knew to be Angel’s arousal. Angel’s wounds had stopped bleeding, but Alastor’s handiwork (or, he supposed, _mouth_-iwork) was still very much evident. Looking at it made him sigh with remembered pleasure, and he reached out to stroke the tuft on top of Angel’s head. ‘One day,’ he said softly, ‘just one day, and you’ve already given me so many gifts.’

Angel woke to the wonderful, homey feeling of someone stroking his hair. It only took a little breath of a moment for him to remember where he was—home, safe, Alastor’s scent surrounding him, so that must be Alastor’s hand in his hair.

There was a soft knocking at the door. Angel felt a little less woozy, now that the haemolymph had clotted, but he still didn’t want to risk sitting up. ‘Could you get that, gattino?’ he murmured sleepily.

Sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Alastor snorted and shook his head as he saw the trail of clothing Angel had left. Easily fixed, though. Normally he liked going through all the motions of getting properly dressed, but he wasn’t exactly desperate for pleasant sensations at this point, and he didn’t really have the time. He snapped his fingers, and his shirt, coat, and tie flew back onto him, securing and creasing themselves perfectly.

He was positive, as he opened the door, that their visitor was Scarpa. No one else currently at the hotel knocked like that.

Scarpa had not begun life as a very tall man, nor a very large man. But centuries as a vampire had given him the tools to change that. Still, it would always look… wrong. More than once he’d been compared to the Fair Folk, even by the Fair Folk, themselves. His eyes, all five of them, were clear and bright, all the same unnatural violet, and his smile was pleasant, and disturbingly human, but for the long fangs. He bowed politely.

‘Dr Scarpa, at your service,’ he said, and meant it; he was a creature, unlike most vampires, who delighted in service—provided it was met with appropriate gratitude. ‘You must be Angelo’s new ragazzo.’

‘Charmed, I’m sure! I know I am, what with this being the first time I’ve ever been introduced in such a fashion!’ Alastor offered a hand, glad to find himself already liking this doctor (whose shape was more imaginative than that of some demons, yet who was not infernal, himself). ‘I’m Alastor! Some folks call me the Radio Demon, because by and large the populace of Hell wouldn’t know imagination if it bit them! They did name it Pentagram City, after all!’

Scarpa shook Alastor’s hand in the Old-World style, smiling. ‘Ah, I see why he fell for you—that voice is magnificent.’ He came into the room, carrying his bag, and set it carefully on the bedside table, seeing Angel and giving a soft sigh of pleasure at the scent of blood. ‘Ah, mio nipote, Angelo…’ he murmured. Angel blushed, and smiled up at him.

‘Zio Scarpa…’

_‘You let him bite at you like a wild animal?’ _he continued, in the old dialect of Italian he spoke, that made ladies the age of Angel’s Nonna swoon and call him poetic._ ‘I am surprised at you, nephew; that is not usually your taste.’ _

_‘Well, he didn’t like kissing.’_

Alastor came back and sat on the edge of the bed, in fine fettle now that he had a new audience. A little remnant of jealousy still muttered in the back of his head, but the look on Angel’s face made it that much easier to refute. ‘I assume you’re discussing my reprehensible habit of eating in bed!’

Scarpa chuckled. ‘Ah, you are not Italian, yes. He went over and opened his little bag, starting to lay out a silver tray, and a roll of surgeon’s tools. A vampire of his bloodline never needed to worry about infection.

‘I wanted Al to sample my liver, maybe.’ Angel knew livers were easiest. ‘I’ve been good, haven’t been drinkin’ much lately.’

Scarpa hummed, looking over the appropriate spot on Angel’s abdomen, not missing how Alastor’s eyes knew where to look, as well.

Surgeon or no, given the wider context, Alastor wasn’t comfortable undressing in front of Scarpa, so he merely hung his jacket carefully on the footboard before replacing his bow tie with a large napkin. He also gave himself a fork, the handle engraved with an antler pattern, and twirled it for Angel and Scarpa to see.

‘I thought a knife would be superfluous!’

Scarpa chuckled. ‘It is so nice to have a dining partner,’ he said, and laid a glass straw beside his scalpels and retractors. He also took out an elegant glass syringe, and filled it with something from a phial. ‘Some morphine, my dear,’ he told Angel. ‘Would you like it?’

A hungry look dilated Angel’s pupils. _‘Si,_ Zio!’

It wouldn’t reach Angel’s liver in anywhere near enough time to be an inconvenience, but Alastor was surprised to find that wasn’t his primary concern. Instead he felt abashed. ‘Should I have offered you something earlier, _cher?’_

The last two words fell out quite on their own, perhaps spurred by Scarpa’s own endearment. If he was going to be acknowledged as Angel’s paramour, he was going to show that he knew how to do it right.

Angel shifted, and they both scented how Alastor’s voice had flushed Angel in more places than one. Scarpa took no heed of it, merely sliding the needle into Angel’s arm lovingly.

‘Good to see you please him,’ he murmured to Alastor, before setting the needle aside, Angel moaning at the feeling of the morphine, Scarpa reminding him not to arch with a mere touch to his belly.

The touch made Alastor’s mouth water, such that he had to swallow hard before he said, ‘You should have seen him earlier!’

He had no doubt that if Scarpa had judged him unsuitable, the surgeon had any number of ways to make him regret ever touching Angel, both subtle and otherwise. That was good, and not just in the usual way that Alastor found people thinking they could hurt him to be amusing (for one thing, Scarpa might actually have the capability). Angel needed more people who would defend him. Well, not _need_ at all, really, given he was an overlord now and under Alastor’s protection, but he had intimated it would make him feel better.

Scarpa’s dark lips curved in a smirk of surprising mischief, as he spread olive oil on Angel’s belly and unfolded a straight razor; Angel sighed at the feeling of the blade whispering over his skin.

‘Alastor,’ Scarpa said, ‘Tell me, have you ever sipped blood from the aorta of a spider?’ Below his hands, Angel bit his lip and moaned softly in anticipation. Scarpa went on, still steadily baring skin, wiping the blade on a clean bit of towelling with each stroke. ‘Spiders differ from insects in many ways; but the most striking is their possession of a heartbeat.’

Angel _loved_ when the vampire talked like this; he’d been the one to really make Angel love his spider-ness.

‘Edifying! Can’t say I have—the ordinary ones are too small, and anyway I was never the type to pull wings off flies! And it’s not as if there are any other demons worth the effort! Is this an experience you were wanting to share?’ Alastor liked how his name sounded from the surgeon’s mouth, almost as much as he liked seeing Angel’s bare skin. He wondered if he ought to have thought of that, but the fur hadn’t been too unpleasant a texture (he’d had worse), and he’d enjoyed the raw impulsivity of it anyway. Very different from this slow, methodical process.

Angel hoped that Scarpa wouldn’t shear off his chest fluff—it took a long time to grow back, at least two moults to get properly fluffy again. Scarpa set aside the razor, however, after finishing with Angel’s belly, and with deft strokes wiped away the last of the stray hairs. They were soft, on Angel’s belly—nothing like the bristles he could flick from the hair on his head—and the skin below them was even softer, more sensitive, and Angel _purred_ when Scarpa stroked it gently, fingers gliding through the oil.

‘Alastor, would you care to…?’ Scarpa’s tone was inviting, as he canted his head just so.

‘Please,’ Angel said, softly, not wanting to speak too much, or too loud, and spoil the effect of the two hunters speaking _over_ him, _about_ him, but not _to_ him. Sometimes, like with Scarpa and those like him, Angel _enjoyed_ being meat. Scarpa _appreciated_ and _savoured_ meat, did not take it for granted.

Alastor beamed, and thankfully did not try and get into a head-tilting contest—with Scarpa’s visible modifications alone, it was possible it might be a close thing. ‘I would indeed!’ He’d put his gloves back on to answer the door, but now he made sure Angel could see him carefully removing them once again. Minding his talons, he reached out and started massaging the oil into Angel’s skin, humming to himself, occasionally half-singing a few bars of a song. It might have been relaxing, under other circumstances, but right now it was really only getting him more fired up for the main event. It was so lovely of Angel to share, and Alastor was pleased as punch that Angel got excited about it as well. He hadn’t ever thought he would be treasuring someone saying things like, _More, Daddy, please…_

‘I tend to like my meals unseasoned,’ Scarpa said quietly, taking up his favourite scalpel for cutting open his slender little spider. He could hear that heartbeat go a little faster. ‘I find Angelo’s taste to be…’ he made the first cut, a sure and beautiful slice. ‘Exquisite.’

_Angelo._ Had that been Angel’s name in life, or was it Scarpa’s own interpretation, an endearment in its own way? There was no reason, Alastor thought after a moment, that it couldn’t be both. He knew, though, that he would never use it, not unless Angel specifically asked. He had no place in Angel’s mortal past, just as no one in Hell had any place in his. This was what floated through his mind as he watched the path of the scalpel, and, for once, he did not reply.

‘Bello, bello,’ Scarpa murmured, as he sliced, expert and with sharper knife than any ordinary hunter. He had the liver exposed in a few beautifully efficient strokes, removing the flesh in front of it only, rather than peeling it back, in one beautiful piece, that he lifted whole, and offered. ‘You are a lycan, yes? You eat flesh?’ he asked. Angel realised he either had not noticed the antlers, or he simply had different information. Angel wasn’t sure what a lycan was, other than a vague impression they might be wolves?

‘A hearty yes to the second, if you hadn’t noticed! As for the first, I’m afraid I don’t— wait, do you mean as in _lycanthrope?_’ Alastor blinked, then burst out laughing so hard that he almost fell off the bed. At last he straightened, adjusting his monocle as he wiped tears from his eyes. ‘My dear doctor, the only remotely wolfish thing about me is my appetite! A lycanthrope! What a riot! Straight out of the pulps! Oh, I like that much better than Vox’s abominable "stag party" jokes!’ He appeared to notice the piece of offered meat for the first time, and created a plate to put it on, as it would have been indecorous to try and eat with his hands.

Scarpa set the meat down on the plate gently. ‘Do not say that name,’ he requested. ‘It spoils the appetite to think of such undesirables.’ He turned back to his work, eyes swirling with red as he allowed his well-fed beast to wake. With manners humans no longer knew, he used a long eating knife from the 1400s to slice the finest sliver of Angel’s liver, transferring it to his mouth deftly. Vampires could not eat meat—unless it was the blood-rich liver, heart, or lungs, that is—not that any but Scarpa’s clan knew that.

‘Speak for yourself,’ Alastor said, in what passed for an undertone in his book, though he did have to admit that hatred was a very effective seasoning. It was quite possible no one else would have found Vox as satisfying. He busied himself with what he thought of as his appetiser, and forgot everything else at the first bite. ‘Angel, you are _wonderful….’_

Angel sighed, looking up at the smiles of his two favourite people in the whole world. He reached a hand to touch Scarpa gently, feeling a little overcome with emotion. When Scarpa ate of him, it was fond, like breaking bread with family; but having Alastor eat of him, like this, with measured bites, savouring like a proper meal…

‘Thank you,’ Angel said, to both of them. Scarpa glanced up at Alastor, smiling, before turning his eyes back down. It was only a glance, but it was… warm. Angel had never seen Scarpa look like that, before—was it? He had thought Scarpa was like Alastor, but maybe… not. Angel resisted the urge to coo. It was so cute; he couldn’t help it!

Wait, he realised this meant _Scarpa liked sex_. Oh. The image of threesomes danced through his head, helped by the morphine, and Angel noised happily. This was the best high he’d had in _so_ long….

Alastor noticed the look, but thought little of it, too lost in mingled ecstasy and anticipation. He wanted Angel’s liver as he had never desired any meal before, but he’d meant what he’d said earlier—he wasn’t going to be so rude as to bolt Angel down like he thought someone was going to try and take his plate away. Angel deserved to be cherished, to be _savoured._

He wondered how often they might be able to do this. It would be wonderful if they could keep wrapping up lessons like this, going forward, given all Angel had to do was lie there and enjoy it. But at the same time, he didn’t want to overindulge and make it less special. It was all very well to know a song by heart, but it meant that sometimes when you listened to it, it just became background noise.

Finally, his plate was empty, and he leaned forward, inhaling the rich scent, eager for more.

Scarpa, however, had no intention of sharing—or rather, had no idea that Alastor was interested in what was on _his_ plate. _Scarpa_ couldn’t eat muscle, sinew, fat, nor skin—but the shapeshifter across the table from him could, and so that was what Scarpa served him, saving the liver for himself.

Angel watched Alastor salivate, and saw Scarpa’s red eyes, and knew Scarpa wasn’t paying attention to anything but food; he spoke sometimes of The Beast, and Angel knew it meant when his eyes were red like this, when his teeth went sharp and he went silent, concentrated, laser-focussed on the act of eating. He might hiss or something if interrupted, Angel wasn’t sure. He’d never interrupted Scarpa when he was like this.

God, this felt so good. Morphine was great stuff. It meant every sensation was pleasure, rather than pain or anything else; and Scarpa’s morphine was always the good stuff, he gave nice big doses, old-fashioned doctor that he was.

Alastor had no such frame of reference, and no compunctions either. He had agreed to Scarpa’s involvement in order to be able to sample Angel’s more hidden delights, and the fact that he was actually having a good time did nothing to lessen his desire—quite the contrary. He cleared his throat. ‘Doctor, I don’t wish to be an atrocious dinner guest, but Angel Dust did promise me some of your current entree! There’s four lobes if you turn your head and squint, I think that’s enough to share!’

He hesitated, then added more quietly, ‘It’s something I very much want to share.’

There was the barest hint of a hiss as red eyes looked up at him with the feral speed of a wild animal; before the red was pulled back, reined in, and cold, unnaturally-violet eyes peered at Alastor once more. Without looking, one of those elegant hands was reaching for the straw. ‘Yes,’ Scarpa said, ‘of course. Excuse my silence, it has been a while since I have eaten….’

He gently moved aside organs, his hands sliding with expertise, until he reached the aorta. Carefully, but with a swift movement, he slipped the flexible end of his straw in the artery, and vampiric swiftness meant the other end was in his mouth before spilling a drop (vampires _hated_ wasting blood, despite what movies showed). He took a long sip, letting Angel’s heart do most of the work, before carefully placing a fingertip over the end of the straw, and offering it to Alastor, with a smile.

It wasn’t what Alastor had asked for, but he had been curious ever since Scarpa had mentioned it, and so he set the plate and fork aside for the moment and leaned in to wrap his lips around the straw. He sipped cautiously, not wanting to take too much, for both Angel’s sake and Scarpa’s, and Angel could see how his eyes widened at the taste.

Blood had always been somewhat incidental to Alastor. It was there, it was pleasant enough despite its tendency to get absolutely _everywhere_, but it was never the main attraction. He’d never really _concentrated_ on it. How fitting that it was Angel who was introducing him to this new experience as well!

‘Oh!’ he said, drawing back and returning the favour with the straw. ‘Oh, that’s very good! Now, if you wouldn’t mind lending me some kind of cutting implement?’

Scarpa glanced at Angel, before offering the scalpel. It was, Alastor got the clear impression from just _how_ he was given the scalpel (hesitantly), a test. If he fucked it up, Scarpa would likely not only stop him, but offer him grievous bodily harm, as reprimand for harming Angel.

Angel felt the tension in the air as well, and it was _delicious._

Perhaps it wasn’t the best reaction, but Alastor found himself enjoying how the stakes had just been raised. He hadn’t been hurt in so long that the concept was almost more appealing than anything else, and he certainly didn’t want to hurt Angel—at least, not more than Angel wanted to be hurt. Calling up long-disused memories, he made a careful, shallow slice, not stabbing, just carving off a little piece that he then set carefully on his plate. He did this twice more in different locations, then handed the scalpel back, all politeness.

Scarpa took it back from him, in truth a little startled—he hadn’t gotten along with his own kind, ever; and he had never run into like-minded humans or demons to know whether he might get along with them or not. He wasn’t exactly sure what to think, or what he felt about it; but he put the scalpel back, and continued sipping. Angel’s blood may have looked watery to other humans, but it tasted richer than human blood ever did, and nourished him far better.

He watched Alastor eat, watched the movement of his hands, watched his expressions at the tastes. Raw meat took longer to chew, even for such sharkish teeth as the demon had. Angel sighed.

‘I’m so happy you two get along…’ he said, ironically sounding not weaker, but stronger, than he had before Scarpa had sliced into him. Then again, the bites had stopped bleeding by now, and Angel had been resting for some time.

Alastor gave him a wicked, bloody grin. ‘I’m just happy to have you!’ He made sure Angel was watching as he put the next bite in his mouth, and made a noise of ecstasy that he’d meant to playfully exaggerate, until he found out he didn’t need to. The result visibly startled him.

Scarpa chuckled, even as he slid the needle free of Angel’s artery and sealed it with a touch of his own power. Angel could heal it himself, but internal bleeding was so unpleasant. Scarpa cut another bit of liver and placed it lovingly on Alastor’s plate, before starting to close Angel up—as much as the spider demon could be closed, with a great piece of his belly missing.

Scarpa reached behind his neck, pulling a length of gossamer from the spinnerets he had put there some time ago, cloned from Angel’s own (and very expensively gotten from another of his clan, who specialised in such things), and began to pack the space with expertise. The protein would be absorbed by Angel’s body as his own, because it _was_ his own, and Scarpa could leave here knowing Angel would heal faster than if he’d been left alone.

‘You will take care of Angelo while he heals, I presume?’ Scarpa asked of Alastor. _If you don’t, I might bite your head off—literally_ that tone said, ever so gently.

‘I can be so solicitous that he’ll beg me to leave him alone!’ From the breadth of Alastor’s smile, he didn’t like the implication he’d be so careless as to toss Angel aside after he’d had his fun. Hadn’t he conducted himself with the utmost care, and _meant_ it? He’d have thought they could dispense with the thinly veiled threats. But it was possible that Scarpa was used to people who were on their best behaviour for company and reverted to type as soon as the door was closed. Alastor had certainly met enough of them.

‘Fat chance, Daddy,’ Angel said, smiling but not laughing—he couldn’t, at the moment, anyway. He looked at Scarpa, a little worried. ‘You ain’t cuttin’ loose after closin’ me up, are ya? So soon?’

‘I can stay a little,’ Scarpa said, ‘but you know the rules.’

‘Yeah, you gotta get back Upstairs before dawn, I know,’ Angel said, relieved and happy. ‘Hey, you should get that cake Lord Sinuous got Alastor, we could have that for dessert. I know you like cake.’

‘Hush,’ Scarpa admonished, still working. It was fascinating to watch him mend the hole in Angel’s belly, if you were of a mind that found such things fascinating. His fingers worked with the tiniest of what Alastor realised was a _crochet hook_, working a pattern of beautiful lace over the carefully-wound cotton-wool-looking gossamer that had been packed into his abdominal cavity to replace what had been taken out.

‘I could go and retrieve said confection,’ Alastor said somewhat absently, admiring the design, the artistry in the acknowledgement that Angel had been taken apart. ‘I’ll forget about it otherwise.’ Things could and did expire in Hell, other than particularly unfortunate demons; milk soured, soft drinks lost their fizz, and even the most skilfully baked cake went stale. Alastor supposed it was a consequence of time still passing. His hands fidgeted in his lap. He wanted to touch Angel, as though their… canoodling… earlier (Alastor still wasn’t certain of the word ‘cuddle’) hadn’t even taken the edge off, but he also didn’t want to disturb Scarpa. Surely it wouldn’t take that much longer?

‘You cannot call the front desk?’ Scarpa asked, bewildered. This was a _hotel,_ surely there was _service_? And the imp of the perverse wanted to have that princess come up here, and be shocked some more.

That set off Alastor’s laughter again. ‘I could, but that’s not a show I feel like putting on right now! There’s a sizeable chance the cake would be delivered on spearpoint, or directly to my face! I could just _send_ it up here—you know what I mean—but if I don’t show my face every now and again, people will start getting suspicious!’

‘Go on then,’ Scarpa said, supremely unconcerned, eyes still on his work.

‘Can’t wait to taste it,’ Angel said, already salivating. ‘I can have cake, right?’

‘Of course, ragazzaccio,’ Scarpa said fondly.

Other people might have blown a kiss, but Alastor only clicked his teeth lightly together at Angel, before slipping out of the room and into the hallway.


	14. Take Off Your Skin And Dance Around In Your Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel takes stock of his new body after his moult into his overlord form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book titles mentioned are all real books that I have read or plan to read.

The elevator ride down was uneventful, leaving Alastor to spend it in dreamy contentment. He couldn’t think of a time he’d ever been so thoroughly satisfied. The look on Angel’s face, the _taste_ of him! He’d nibble on the cake to see how it went with the aftertaste, but he couldn’t think of any dessert more sublime than what he’d already had. Imagine, eating someone to demonstrate affection, and being afforded the chance because they felt the same! Hell was truly full of endless marvels. It was with a spring in his step that he disembarked and, in what was apparently becoming a habit, walked directly into Charlie.

‘Whoops! Haha, sorry,’ Charlie said, smiling that nervous grimace of a smile. She noticed Alastor had actually _bumped_ into her a moment later, and asked. ‘Distracted? Something wrong?’ She couldn’t imagine Alastor being distracted by anything else, but the last day and a half he’d seemed… weird. In a weird mood. She wasn’t sure. And Vaggie had said that Dr Scarpa was actually a good sort, not a sinner, not a saint, just a regular person. A vampire, yes, but vampires were, and this was the important thing, _still alive_. Scarpa was helpful, and Vaggie knew that whatever reason he’d been called meant that Angel was being taken care of—and so was Alastor, for that matter.

But what _had_ happened? Oh, social media was buzzing with rumours that Alastor was in Angel’s pocket, that he’d killed Val and Vox because Angel had told him to—but Charlie wasn’t so sure. Alastor wasn’t that kind of guy. But the only other possibility was… was that Alastor had done it on his own steam, because… because he wanted Angel to fail? But then why would he do Angel a _favour_?

What if Alastor was reforming? Nobody agreed with Charlie, but she had to hope. Maybe Alastor had actually done something _nice_.

And then followed it up with, what, something that required the attention of a _surgeon?_

‘Is Angel okay?’ Charlie asked, fully realising that Alastor smelled like blood and viscera—_fresh_ blood and viscera.

Alastor bit down the effusive reply that threatened to come gushing out of him. He wasn’t going to give the game away that easily, much as he wanted to tell everyone within earshot that Angel was absolutely magnificent. Some people just didn’t have a refined enough palate.

‘He’s recuperating nicely!’ he assured Charlie, flush with sincerity, knowing she would have seen Scarpa arrive… but not what would have precipitated the doctor’s arrival in the first place. Well, _heaven._

‘From…?’ Charlie pressed, not wanting to invite denial by asking Alastor if he’d _hurt_ his now-fellow overlord.

Alastor’s grin froze in place. Should he concoct a cover story? Angel was already apprehensive about his reception from Charlie once he explained his goals; the chance that Alastor might get caught out in a lie about their activities wouldn’t help matters. Charlie might be oblivious to some things, but she could be quite perceptive, usually at the least opportune times.

Was it at all possible she and Vaggie got up to anything frightfully deviant? Somehow Alastor doubted it. ‘From some minor injuries he sustained, of course!’ he said, hoping she’d realise it was nothing she wanted to know about.

Charlie looked at him for a long moment, trying to figure it out. ‘But I thought you—but you turned him down—so you—so you changed your mind?’ When? Hadn’t that happened rather quickly? Did it happen faster for boys?

Alastor blinked, and was silent for long enough that it was an answer in itself. He hadn’t expected her to catch on quite _that_ quickly. Had she been working off Angel’s proclivities, or what she could guess at of his? He slung a companionable arm around her shoulders, bringing their heads close and dropping his voice as though confiding a secret. Which, in point of fact, he was. ‘Just because I’m not one for dockside propositions doesn’t mean I’m not amenable to more private arrangements!’ He had little to no practice in lascivious grins, despite his wide repertoire, but did his best.

Charlie beamed at him, and hugged him, taking his physical contact as permission. ‘Ooh, so you _are_ together! That’s so great!’ she said, fairly _squeaking_ with girlish ecstasy.

Somewhat tentatively, Alastor hugged her back, hoping this wasn’t going to start a trend. ‘Yes, well, the operative word is _private,_ so I’d be much obliged if you kept this little tidbit to yourself!’

She was happy? He hadn’t been prepared for that at all, but it was probably easier to deal with than the alternative. Assuming she could restrain herself from telegraphing her delight to all and sundry.

‘You’re so _sweet_ helping Angel like that! Vaggie explained it all to me! Well, the bits about how it’s a good thing Val is dead, anyway—and I’m soooooo happy for you both, love is so great and—wait,’ she said, the request catching up with her and curbing her enthusiasm somewhat. ‘Private? Why? It’s okay to be gay down here, Al, really!’

Her earnestness was, yet again, almost physically painful. Alastor extricated himself from the hug, wondering how he’d ended up in a position to be divulging so much so often. It was much safer to be a mystery.

He could do this, though. Baring his heart to Angel had been harder. He supposed, in a way, Angel had now returned the favour… No, he had to focus. ‘The thing is, I don’t normally have any such inclinations towards anyone! Angel Dust is something of a special case, and I don’t believe that will be widely understood!’

Charlie paused, confused; Vaggie, however, understood.

‘I’ve been wondering what will happen, when Angel undergoes metamorphosis; I remember when Val did….’ she said, quiet. She had been unnerved by the Radio Demon when he’d first arrived, but the days had gone on, and she’d just had to deal with it. He was a person, now, and while people could be scary, they weren’t quite the same kind of scary as the unknown monster in the dark.

‘Oh,’ Charlie hadn’t really realised that. ‘Gosh, I’ve… he’s an overlord now, that means he has a territory….’ Charlie had never been very good at the princess hat stuff. She would rather talk about rainbows and kittens and sing songs than be serious. Being serious only highlighted how nervous she was, and how much of a failure at being a demon.

Alastor reached out and tapped her on the nose. ‘He has _Valentino’s_ territory, at least to start with, and he’ll be busy renovating that for a while, I imagine! Nothing to worry about!’

As was typical for people being reassured by the Radio Demon, Charlie looked less than relieved. ‘I… guess?’ she said tentatively.

‘That’s settled, then! Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to retrieve that cake! It was just awaiting the right circumstances!’ In truth, what Alastor was finding he really wanted was time to himself, to really come to terms with everything that had just happened—to digest things, as it were. But he’d promised Angel the treat, and it wouldn’t bode well for his having learned anything if he vanished without a word, not after they had just explored this new, precious territory. Well, Scarpa had to leave before dawn, so Alastor could appropriate that for his own adieu.

Angel was sipping a cold bottle of milk coffee from a straw when Alastor got back, Scarpa sitting by the side of his bed, his instruments clean. The sheets had been cleaned, and Scarpa raised a brow at Alastor’s look of confusion.

‘I called the maid,’ he said, ‘she was in the hallway. There are a plethora of one-eyed people in this hotel, was that on purpose?’ he asked, with genuine curiosity. Angel tried not to giggle, but couldn’t help inhaling deeply when the cake got close.

‘Oooh,’ Angel sighed. ‘Smells like _chocolate_.’ A rare and expensive treat, in Hell.

When they cut into it, it was, in fact, red velvet—true red velvet, made with dutched chocolate, not dye, and with a truly luscious cream cheese frosting beneath the chocolate mirror-glaze.

Just because of that, Alastor had a bigger slice than he had originally intended, though he wondered wryly if he should send a thank-you note to Lord Sinuous adding that Angel was the perfect accompaniment. It was entirely possible the Serpent knew that already.

After they’d finished, he stood and stroked Angel’s head briefly, having to force his fingers not to stay and bury themselves in that soft fur. ‘Will you be all right if I step out for an hour or two? I’d like to do my weekly broadcast, and a full stomach heightens focus! Well, for me, anyway!’

There was no set time for Alastor’s radio show, partially because he liked surprises and partially because it annoyed Vox, who wanted even the obsolete things to be orderly. It was unclear how much of Hell actually tuned in, because it wasn't the total sound wave takeover he usually called a broadcast—you needed a radio (of any kind, even the function on a hellphone) and the inclination. But Alastor didn’t do it for the attention. He did it because it soothed him.

Angel smiled, but it was a sleepy one. ‘Nah, I’m good. Need some rest anyway.’ He felt, deep in his core, the urge to lay in a pool of water, the distinct feeling that his skin was too tight, that preceded a moult. It wasn’t unusual—he had the urge whenever his body got too injured—but this one felt… different, somehow. Of course, Angel knew he’d just become an Overlord, and his soul-contract with Val, as well as the rest of Val _and_ Vox’s soul-contracts, were his. Alastor didn’t need to know that just now, though. The poor hart had been through enough today, Angel didn’t want to worry him. …And maybe he wanted the drama of the big reveal, a little. Hey, he was in showbiz too!

.xOo.

Angel was a lot smarter than people gave him credit for. When you were between takes, you had to hurry up and wait; it was why reading had become the favourite pastime for most people in theatre. A book let you escape without moving, could be put down, and you didn’t need headphones potentially blocking out voices you needed to hear. And, just like in school, Angel had a lot of reason to spend his time escaping. All of the directors were friends of Valentino, and the louse only kept company with like-minded individuals. He’d started off reading mystery novels, but had run dry on those, and Spicy had arrived, bringing with him a thirst for knowledge of a particular kind, and he’d quickly started reading books with titles like ‘Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex’, ‘The Sexual History of London’, and ‘Straight: The Surprisingly Short History of Heterosexuality’. Angel borrowed every single one, devouring them and wanting more. Spicy provided more, but his taste for history and details was eclectic. Angel was pleased to follow him through ‘Making Sense: The Glamorous History of English Grammar’ and on to ‘A Field Guide to Mesozoic Birds and Other Winged Dinosaurs’ and even up to his current ‘Mauve: How One Man Invented a Color That Changed the World’.

But it was when Spicy _talked_ that you got the measure of him; he knew as much as his reading tastes belied, and spoke with disdain about Val, making no secret that he didn’t respect a pimp that had never been a worker, and telling Angel while they were at his room at Yve’s place that it would undercut Val entirely to have legal brothels again, and that was why, after Val and Vox were disposed of, Angel called Spice Drop into his office, which was in a completely different building from Valentino’s, in the same building as the accountants and legal department, a nice office Angel decorated with white and pink and touches of warm rose gold.

‘So,’ Angel said, ‘I’m startin’ to need a moult, an’ I figure it’s gonna be kind of a change from before.’

Spicy, by now, was used to being the go-to for Angel talking about his arachnid nature; Angel knew he loved spiders, bordering on a kink, and had been wanting for years to do a film with Angel involving Angel’s more… spidery qualities. It wasn’t to be, but that didn’t mean Angel hadn’t indulged Spice Drop in private, the rare nights he’d had time. This wasn’t odd; but Angel went on.

‘You think you can run this shit for a couple days?’

Spicy drew back like a startled horse. ‘Do what now?’ he asked.

‘You heard me.’

‘I… Angel, I’ve never even headed up a group project in school.’

‘An’ you needta learn, if yer gonna be my second-in-command.’

‘What if I fuck up?’

‘You can’t fuck up too bad in a couple days, Spice. I believe in ya.’

Spicy teared up a little, sniffling and looking away, swallowing hard even as tears fell, trying to hold in the urge to cry. Angel let him have space; he knew Spicy hated that he cried so easily in front of people, and yet could hardly ever cry when he was alone. ‘I need a minute,’ he said. ‘I didn’t… Angel, I didn’t expect this.’

‘I know,’ Angel said. ‘But I figure, ya got a good, sensible head on yer shoulders, ya got good ideas, _fresh_ ideas, an’ if ya need help, you can just ask my secretary.’ He got up, with the uncomfortable feeling not unlike wearing a latex bodysuit that was thick-gauge and also a size too small. ‘Now, I gotta take a bath and peel my bones off.’

Spice Drop laughed, wiping his tears away and standing up as well. ‘Thanks for believing in me, Angel. I’ll do my best.’

‘I know you will, kid,’ Angel said, kissing him, walking him to the door, and shutting it behind him. He turned, and looked around his office, sighing. He didn’t want to do this in the hotel, but he really had nowhere else to live that felt safe. At this point, there were few places on the studio lot he felt safe, even with Val dead. He had to fix that, or he’d never be able to do his new job….

He went over to the comm button, pressed it. ‘Molly, redirect my calls to Spice Drop for the next couple days, I gotta moult.’ She’d understand, she’d shown up in Hell right next to him, and he’d adopted her immediately. They’d been through everything together—bad trips, good trips, tricks and the very few treats, over the years. She was basically his fourth sister.

_‘Yes sir, Mr Angel Dust!’ _she said cheerfully. She’d always wanted to be his secretary, and while he’d never been able to get her _that,_ he’d tried his best to share the string-laden plenty Val had given him, over the years. She’d not-quite-languished in Costuming before Val’s recent demise, whereupon Angel had texted her that she was his personal secretary, effective immediately. It had put her in a very good mood.

‘Thank you, Molly,’ he said, and turned off the intercom, going over to the giant bathroom that had manifested just off the office, with what Angel could only presume was some of his new powers; from the pink marble to the spider motif repeated over and over in the taps, the windowpanes, even the towels, it was clear to Angel that this bathroom was more than just something merely _decorated_ to his taste. The water was waiting, steaming gently and smelling clean and fresh, which was how he preferred it for moults. He stripped with the efficiency of long practise, and slid into the water.

Angel usually hated this part; but this time, he wasn’t so sure he’d hate it. Facts weren’t the only things Spicy read, and Angel was happy to be privy to his secret, shy kinks, the ones he was so scared of being mocked, because they were so special to him. One of those was why he had such an attachment to Angel, and Angel didn’t mind.

‘Araneiform,’ Angel said, letting the word slide over his tongue, tasting it, using the voice he used for in front of the camera, the voice that was professional, polished, not at all drawling with a Brooklyn whine and an immigrant lilt. It was a voice Alastor would sit up and listen to, a voice that was nothing of him, and everything glamourous and glittering. A seductive voice, and maybe, just maybe, it could be an overlord voice.

He was an overlord now, and he wasn’t stupid—he wasn’t due for a moult for months, so this had to be related to the fact that he suddenly found himself without an overlord—and taking the throne for himself. It was less a bath and more a small pool, because he needed room to move around, and, well, he was all spider. Spicy had explained why moults were so upsetting, even if they weren’t exactly _painful_.

_‘Spiders kind of… have to regrow their guts, every time.’_

_‘Ew!’_

_‘It’s sort of amazing though; do you ever get the urge to rip off an arm if it gets hurt?’_

_‘…Oh thank fuck, I thought I was just weirdly self-destructive.’_

_‘No, no, that’s another—’_

_‘Spider thing,’ Angel said, along with Spicy. He ruffled the kid’s feathers. ‘What’d I do withoutcha, bug boy?’ _

_‘Be really confused and scared so I **guess** you better buy me a new pair of heels, huh?’_

Angel laughed; Spicy had a long way to go, when it came to negotiating or even asking for things; but he was getting there. His voice still shook a little too much, got a little too loud, even when he was trying to joke—but he had forever to practise.

Angel arched back and forth, twisting, reaching back and tearing at his back, where his spine used to be; nowadays, he knew he didn’t exactly have a bony spine, and had used that to his advantage during his job more than once. His nails were blunt, Val always demanding that, and he’d not had a chance to sharpen them after the louse’s death. It made it hard to tear, but, eventually, the room manifested a knife, hook-shaped and perfect, and Angel took it, reaching back and making just a beginning notch. It was all his body needed ,and the split began, feeling both agonising and like such a relief. Rather like pulling off a scab, but all over….

It was only the beginning. It took hours, hours of exhausting twisting and arching and struggling, before Angel was pushing the old skin from the tub, hearing it flop wetly onto the tile floor, sighing, laying back, falling into a deep but short sleep, feeling safe about it in a way he never had, before. But he was an _overlord_, now; no one would be able to get through that door, get into this room. He may as well have been in Fort Knox….

When he woke, it wasn’t with fear; he woke as safely as though he’d been in Alastor’s arms, and didn’t open his eyes—any of them—which was new. The tiny eyes beneath his main ones had never had eyelids before…. Granted, they couldn’t exactly _see_ either, just sort of detect shadows; but this was the first time since being dead that Angel had experienced darkness without having a blindfold on. It was nice. It felt controlled. He liked that.

_Okay, Angel, prepare yourself for new things. What can you feel?_ He slowly became aware of something in his mouth, and yawned without yawning, feeling something extend outward. He recalled a sci-fi picture Spicy had shown him, where a cockroach-like alien had extended… palps?... from his mouth. Okay, something to ask Spicy about, then. Probably venomous? He checked his teeth, and definitely felt his fangs longer, so maybe the palps _weren’t_ venomous. Well, good, he rather liked the venomous bite he had already. Maybe these were the pedipalps he’d never had, before; he’d rather have them hidden away than on the outside, anyway.

He opened his eyes, and immediately wanted a mirror, because he was getting way more input than he had ever gotten before. Getting up, however, made him pause and look down. His hands were black, with claws in a bright and, he suspected, uv-reactive pink. From shoulder to knuckle he had the same pink and black striped, and the heart on his chest had expanded, inside of it the only white on his body now, its outline the same shape, in that new neon pink. But the rest of him was black as shadow, and his fluff was a lot shorter—except on his chest—which was honestly a bit of a relief. He looked closer at his hands, and saw the same little marks he knew meant he had spinnerets there, in the lower centre divot of his palms. Strange. He still had spinnerets in the normal spot, just above his mons, so that was all right. He kinda liked having his own source of rope.

He fluffed his chest a bit, a familiar self-caress, and segued into hugging himself, trying something Spicy had suggested years ago. ‘I love myself,’ he said, and whaddya know, hearing it in his voice _did_ help. ‘I love me, I love this, I love this new thing my body’s doing.’

He wasn’t _quite_ sure he believed it yet—his body still felt strange and new—but he’d keep working on it. He wondered, idly, if Charlie would have been proud of him. Granted, she was pretty condescending even so, but she didn’t mean to be, so Angel didn’t hold it against her. Going over to the mirror, still dripping all over the floor, Angel looked at himself, really looked, from the hips down and all. He still felt his stomach turn at the sight of his own feet; but he took a deep breath, reminding himself that Vox was _dead_, and it helped—a little. Not a lot, but not nothin’, either. Now, for his face… well, his head was still white, so his face looked much the same, thank fuck, he wasn't sure he could take much more change to his face without completely flipping his lid; but his eyes….

‘Oh,’ he said, seeing the black and red eyes in the mirror—all _six_ of them. It looked strange, but it made him wonder… he’d always thought his black and red eye was a sign of weakness, an injury or something; but apparently it was his power leaking out, even with the stranglehold Val had on him, because now _all_ of his eyes were that colour. He wondered where his fourth pair of eyes was, because he had to have one, right? All spiders had eight eyes. Maybe they were on the back? He closed his six eyes, tried to find them; much to his surprise, concentrating on them opened up new eyes, eyes that _weren’t on his body_. Thoroughly disturbed, he gave a shout, and closed them before he could really get his bearings, wrapping his arms around himself.

‘Ooookay,’ he said, shaken, ‘maybe figure that out later.’ Extra-dimensional body parts were all well and good for beings that had always _been_ extra-dimensional, but Angel had never had stray body parts on… whatever plane that was. He shook himself. He’d… he’d get used to that. Maybe… pay a visit to Lord Sinuous later…. He probably should for… diplomatic… reasons, anyway. Angel smirked to himself, fluffing his chest again. Yeah. _Diplomacy._

Running his hands down his body again, he noticed something, and turned around, looking over his shoulder. Grinning, he said, ‘Well, well, wouldja look at that? My ass got bigger.’ He shook it a little, delighted. His thighs were bigger too, and had some shiver to them when he shimmied. Angel looksed himself over, looking for other softness, and found that while he wasn’t fluffy with fur anymore, he was fluffy with _fat_, and that was so, _so_ much better. He was _soft_, he’d never _been_ soft before, and he felt…

Safe.

Angel sighed, ‘Well,’ he said, ‘on with the show.’


	15. Like A Virgin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel goes to find Alastor after moulting, and to try out his new parts.

Alastor had instituted his weekly show not long after he’d settled into the space he’d carved out for himself, content with carnage and chaos for the time being. He’d wanted to get back to his _other_ passion, because Hell was only going to change him as much as he let it, and it wouldn’t take the things nearest and dearest to his heart. If his opportunities in life had been cut short, eternal damnation was going to deliver.

In the beginning, it had been just him, alone in the studio he’d made, honing his powers as he used them to fill in everything that was needed to support the host and his microphone. Then, a few demons had slunk and sidled up to what they hoped was his good side, offering to get him more news, even things he could break before Vox got to them. Curious, he’d accepted; and then there was a musical act so desperate they sealed a deal with him as soon as they got in the door, no questions asked. That inspired him, and before long, scads of sinners were all too eager to agree to contracts where their end of the bargain was working in his studio, in whatever capacity he saw fit. It was just old-timey radio, after all. How bad could it be? They all found out the answer sooner or later, but either way, Alastor had _staff._ Soon, he had more interviews, an entire stable of serial adventures (where he _didn’t_ have to do all the voices), and an in-house band all his own. What the show never ended up with was a name. It didn’t really seem to need one, not when there was nothing else like it on Hell’s airwaves. One show a week, unless he was _really_ busy or down in the dumps. Both had happened before, and caused some very gratifying fear. And because every host needed their signature sign-off, they always ended the same way:

‘Well, folks, we’re down to nothing but static, so until next week or we all freeze over… _stay tuned!’_

The recording shut off, and he pushed back from his desk with a sigh, needing to move, his restless energy somehow having been topped up. He did feel _better_—because when radio was involved it was impossible _not_ to—but not as much as he’d _hoped_. Not even after a couple days to simmer down. He’d only mentioned Angel once, in the context of the spider’s takeover of the Studio, and even then, he’d focussed more on Valentino’s sudden vanishing—for which he was careful not to take credit, at least not in as many words. That Spice Drop had seemed like the talkative sort, and Alastor had enough on his plate as it was.

There was a feeling, gradually, of the sort Alastor got when another overlord neared his studio—it usually set his hackles to raise, and his antlers to grow points. This time, however, it was… new. Familiar, yet unfamiliar. Not exactly unwelcome, or aggressive in the usual violent way. No, this almost felt like Yve’s presence, something soft and enveloping, something less of Wrath and Greed and more of… Lust.

There was, down all the stairs and through all the hallways, an overlord concubus knocking at his door. Alastor was good with Hell’s history—part of his job as a newscaster, after all, was knowing such things—and he knew there hadn’t been a Head of Concubines in many a century. It seemed that was about to change….

He was, suddenly, very aware of the slow breath he drew in, of the space his body occupied in the more physical set of dimensions. His microphone had been crouched on his desk, there for him to speak into, but at his gesture it stretched, straightened, and leapt into his hand. A tap switched it to transmitting only through the building, and he grinned twice as wide as was necessary as he said, with confidence he didn’t feel, ‘Let him in and send him up!’

The receptionist’s voice sounded a little shaky when his voice came through the intercom. ‘It’s Lord Angel Dust, sir, and he’s on his way.’

.oOo.

Angel looked up at the imp, licking his lips without breaking eye contact, smiling. ‘Thanks, sweetheart,’ he said, ever the roguish, and headed for the elevators, shiny, pink high heeled boots clicking on the polished floor. The rest of his outfit was much more than usual—he found his powers manifesting a luxuriously full peignoir of what must have been spidersilk, trimmed with absolutely simple white mink, and his cunt and hips were dripping with a piece Spicy had designed for one of his movies once, that spread him and put his clit on full display. It was fuller now, bigger, though still unmistakably a clit, a faceted spinel tapping against his clit with every movement.

He wore a pink bouchon corset, that matched the spinel, with gold fasteners, golden gossamer embroidery and flossing, and gold ribbons (perfect for cutting) straining with how tightly he’d laced them. His tits were on full display, and—this was the best part—_he had nipples again_. He hadn’t since he’d been alive. Apparently being an overlord meant they were back. He hadn’t adorned them, other than playing with them to distraction in the car ride here (and he was so happy for the gift from the studio; the boys in fabrication had completely redone one of the company cars overnight, making it Angel’s particular shade of pink, with magenta velvet upholstery and swivel seats. It was for _comfort_, so unlike Val’s cars—_and Angel had driven here himself_), so they were pink, almost as pink as his clit.

He leaned against the wall opposite the recording booth’s picture window, the brim of his white fedora hiding all but his wicked smile, as he watched his lover.

Alastor was pacing, and apparently in the middle of some kind of soliloquy, complete with gestures. The booth was soundproofed to heaven and back, because aside from recording concerns, it was the Radio Demon’s sanctum, and he didn’t like to spoil surprises. The surprise, in this case, was what he was going to say when Angel arrived, because he still hadn’t figured that out yet.

Angel waited to be noticed, tipping his head back after a while, to better watch his lover. He wasn’t about to interrupt—some may have liked their lover flustered, but Angel preferred to let people get over it, first.

Besides, Angel could read lips. The boy was giving himself a pep talk, and wasn’t that just the cutest thing?

‘…and this is where I suppose I have to acknowledge that I’m technically an overlord as well, even though I can’t stand the term! It gives people entirely the wrong idea! The rest of that sorry bunch wouldn’t know culture if it stood up and did a burlesque routine, and I’m not _an_ anything! No, no, that will make him think’—it devolved into words Angel couldn’t make out, which were probably Cajun French, and probably obscene—’but the point is, the actual _point_ is, we’re on as equal a footing as we’ve ever been! That should ball up the gossips! Of course, how public we make our association still remains to be see—’

He saw Angel, and his jaw dropped.

Angel smirked, and blew a kiss that, despite being intangible, phased through the glass and landed squarely on Alastor’s cheek, the very vivid sense-memory of a kiss, and the scent of a complex and seductive perfume—it was the scent of the Holy Trinity slowly carmelising at the beginning of a batch of anything, it was the scent of fresh blood and cooling sweat, it was the scent of sweet phlox and spanish moss on a lazy night, it was _home_ and it was _invitation_ and _welcome_ and _how was Angel doing this?_ How did he _know_?

But he didn’t, Alastor realised, he didn’t know. He was a _concubus_, his _magic_ knew exactly what scents Alastor associated with comfort, hunger, and beauty.

And scent, to Alastor, was second only to sound, as sensations went. He’d always had a keen nose to go with his sharp ears, even when he’d been alive. Smell was crucial, it was the gateway to memory, a way to distinguish fair and foul. The right fragrance stirred all kinds of things in him, more than visual or tactile appeal could ever match.

He’d been around concubi before, though much lesser ones, and been amused at their bafflement when their charms didn’t work on him. It was a good thing none of them could see him now. He wondered how much of that was Angel’s newfound power, and how much was just due to it being Angel, full stop.

He waved unsteadily at the door to open it, because he wasn’t sure he was capable of doorknobs at the moment. His legs propelled him as far as the doorway and then seized up. Possibly they’d been affected by how _tight_ everything suddenly felt.

It was all right. He’d planned for this. He’d rehearsed. He’d just… He hadn’t even gotten to the stage of finding words he could live with saying, and now they were gone. They were all gone. All he had was gasps, just empty breath, and his chest was telling him he didn’t have much of that to spare either.

‘You—’ he tried, and got no further.

Angel saw the effect he was having, saw with new eyes (literally and figuratively), and decided to go slow, to treat Alastor like the virgin he was. Gently, but not cautiously, he laid a hand on his lover’s cheek.

‘You wanna kiss, sweethart?’ he asked softly. With Alastor, a kiss was not an _activity_, Angel knew that now, so much as a _gift_, a one-way sort of thing. He stroked Alastor’s cheek with his thumb, gently. Alastor leaned into the touch, which somehow soothed him even as it made everything worse.

‘I’d like a kiss from you,’ he said, his own voice little more than a murmur, tentative and low. It would have been inaudible on air. ‘I don’t think you—I don’t want to scratch your new paint.’

Angel chuckled, leaning in to kiss Alastor’s cheek, pressing his face against Alastor’s and enjoying the soft feeling of his hair, the scent of it quiet and beautiful and un-perfumed. He smelled like brylcreem and listerine, clean and old-fashioned, and it was starting to be Angel’s favourite scent. ‘Tell me what you want, sweethart, I’m listening.’ He couldn’t help how velvety, how seductive, that sounded. Angel had a feeling he was 100% Mae West, now; everything he said was going to be seductive, even if he was ordering a sandwich. It was thrilling, really, just like all of the sex appeal he’d gained in death—he hadn’t had it much in life, or he hadn’t felt like he did.

Alastor’s little laugh shook along with the rest of him. ‘I don’t know what I want. What I want seems too vast to define! And I don’t…’ His shoulders locked, and he pulled back enough to let Angel see him frowning as he said, more clearly and heavily this time, ‘I don’t know what _I_ want, and what your nature is telling me I want. I’ve never felt any of these things before, I don’t know if they’re mine.’

Angel nodded once. ‘Yeah, that’s the rub of bein’ a concubus, ain’t it? But I usedta talk a lot about it with Yve, and she said we can’t make feelings that ain’t there. We just make ‘em louder, that’s all.’ He put his uppermost pair of hands on Alastor’s shoulders, squeezing once. ‘We can go as slow as ya need, babe. You wanna take this to that nice little lounge I saw down the hall?’

‘Yve is very wise,’ Alastor said wryly. He reached up to put a hand cautiously over one of Angel’s, gaze searching. ‘You don’t mind that…’ He faltered, annoyance carving a brief, cutting half-smile. ‘That it’s only louder now?’

‘Nah,’ Angel said. ‘I like it just fine.’ He pulled away from Alastor and offered one of his middle arms, which were the right height for Alastor to take. He sort of liked the new feeling he had, of maybe being equal enough to Alastor to be the one offering his arm, rather than the one taking Alastor’s arm.

Alastor took it, linking it through his own. He couldn’t help noticing that the red of his coat went quite nicely with Angel’s black fur. (He was always fully dressed to do his show; his days of having to strip down to his shirtsleeves, trying not to drip sweat on the microphone, were over. Hell had nothing on New Orleans summers.) ‘Then let’s lounge our way to the lounge! Or walk. Or jog. Or run. Or—’ He broke off into a sharp-edged laugh. ‘Angel Dust, I do believe I’m nervous!’

‘You’re safe,’ Angel said, because that was the best thing he could think to say, what he always said, when someone was nervous around him. He’d gotten it from Tink, a dominatrix who worked _with_ them, but predated Val and so wasn’t under his power. She was always reassuring people they were safe, with her.

The lounge was for breaks, had comfortable red sofas and chairs, an icebox, a coffee maker. Angel sat on the sofa, and let Alastor choose his own perch, not beckoning him to any particular spot. ‘You wanna make some coffee, something?’ he asked, surprised at how naturally the role of dominant came to him.

‘Coffee is a distraction!’ Alastor started pacing again, hands fussing with his lapels. When his circuit took him past the door, he tapped it with a talon, and a very large deadbolt appeared, sliding heavily into place. It wouldn’t remotely inconvenience him or Angel (unless Angel still thought of it as a problem), but it would keep any of his staff from poking their noses in and having to be obliterated. ‘Do we need any, ah, accoutrements?’

Angel watched him. ‘Sweethart, slow down, I ain’t in no hurry.’ He offered a gentle smile. ‘Talk to me, babe, c’man. ‘s me, Angel.’ He spread his arms. ‘Just Angel.’

Alastor was too jittery for Angel to even _want_ to make a move on him; but Angel couldn’t do more than give him space and reassurance. He was no good at the sort of calming down that shrinks did.

Taking a deep breath, Alastor came over and sat on the sofa next to him. ‘I’m not sure you’ve ever been _just_ Angel,’ he said, picking up a bit of the fluff that trimmed Angel’s peignoir and rubbing it between his fingers. That intoxicating smell was much stronger now, and he found himself leaning closer without even meaning to, almost falling against Angel as he tried to will himself to relax. ‘If I thought so, I was mistaken.’ He played with the trim a bit more, trying not to yank out a tuft. Sometimes he picked at things when he got nervous, a habit Niffty despised, because it left _bits_ everywhere.

He sighed. ‘I’ve always been in a hurry in these situations.’ Something occurred to him, and he twisted the fabric sharply. ‘You _are_ aware I’ve done this before? Well, not _this_ this. A similar this. A kind of vi-this-itude.’

Alastor was beginning to suspect that he was not actually slowing down.

‘This?’ Angel said, raising a brow. ‘What, havin’ a boyfriend?’ He wasn’t going to suggest anything; he’d just come to see his lover. Sure, he had things he wanted to do; but Angel wasn’t one to make plans with somebody without asking them, first.

Alastor made himself relinquish the peignoir before he could snag or tear it, folding his hands in his lap instead. Well, slightly above his lap. ‘Having sex,’ he corrected, and it came with the kind of grin Angel now knew was a self-defence mechanism.

‘Sex can mean a lotta things, sweethart; which one were you thinkin’ of?’ Angel got comfortable, arranging the peignoir around himself with all six hands, elegant motions showing off their length and new stripes.

When he’d been alive, Alastor’s complexion had been just light enough for blushes to be mortifyingly visible. Apparently, his body still remembered that, because heat flooded his cheeks like someone had tipped over a pot of boiling water, and he just knew it was obvious. ‘Depending on how much time you have, several of them.’ He caught himself before he could say _all._ The entire reason he’d taken up with Angel in the first place had been because he didn’t know what _all_ really was. ‘But I was thinking of one I hadn’t done before.’

Angel’s smile got a little more teasing. ‘Why don’tcha list off the ones you’ve done before, so I know which one to suggest,’ he purred, still not touching Alastor; it wasn’t the right time, and Alastor was the kind to need to initiate touch on his own, when he was this jittery.

Alastor did, but only by swatting him lightly. ‘And not at all for the pleasure of hearing me get my tongue around it, of course!’ He snorted, then said, his voice as detached as it could be without coming from somewhere else in the room. ‘I’ve penetrated with my fingers—wearing gloves, of course, I talked a doctor friend of mine into giving me some—and my cock, with the equivalent.’ He said the more vulgar word with nary a hitch; it wasn’t his first time for that, either. ‘In both the usual orifices, though not with the same person, or at the same time. No mouths, can’t abide that!’

He visibly cut himself off there, and eyed Angel sidelong to see the response.

Angel studied him for a while, thinking. ‘Al, if we’re gonna do this, you gotta loosen up, talk more specifically. Do you not know the terms? I can teach you,’ he offered, careful to keep his voice non-judgemental, and soft around the edges, but not so soft as to seem condescending.

Alastor sighed. ‘I know more slang than you might expect, but that’s about it. Maybe you’d better tell me.’ He hoped Angel still found his inexperience to be a refreshing change of pace

Angel draped his middle arms over the back of the sofa, the lower ones rearranging his peignoir, the upper ones folded, one hand thoughtfully over his mouth.

‘Well, you’ve… penetrated a girl with your cock, you said? Is that what you mean by “usual orifices”?’ Walking someone through this was not unfamiliar to Angel—his more modern friends had done the same with him, once they’d arrived a few years ago.

‘A girl, yes, and also another man, who only had the one other option.’ Alastor described a small circle with one finger, his smile crooked. ‘You’ll remember I know where both of them are!’

Angel laughed, feeling a little of Alastor’s tension ease, even as he grappled with disappointment (at Alastor having any experience with other men; mostly because that had, clearly, not been a _good_ experience) and desire. ‘Do you want me to fuck you, sweethart?’ he asked.

_‘Immensely,’_ Alastor said, one of his pupils starting to spin and change as he met Angel’s eyes again, all relief and hunger. The lights flickered, making the shadows on the walls rear up and take a dancing step or two, before he got his power back under control. It took a bit of wrestling, more than was usual. Concubi were like that. They _encouraged._ ‘More than I ever thought would be possible! Does this mean I don’t need to finish the list?’

Angel leaned close, touching Alastor’s face—slowly, as always, letting him have ample time to move away. ‘Ya know, I _should_ make you finish it…’ he said, going in for a kiss, their lips close enough that their breaths were mingling.

Alastor accepted the kiss, even letting Angel’s tongue tease the edge of his mouth, and fondly nipped Angel’s lower lip. ‘There’s not much to finish! But I’d very much like to see you _make_ me do anything!’ On the wall, his shadow crooked its fingers in a challenging come-hither. Angel’s responding smile could rewrite history.

‘Bet I can make you scream before tonight is out.’ He wondered if Alastor would assume one could scream from sex, or if he’d think only Angel did that, because he was a professional. In the industry, a lot of the betting pool wasn’t whether someone was queer or not, or what size they were, but whether they were a screamer, a squeaker, et cetera. It was a fun game, and Angel was very good at it. Even so, he wasn’t entirely sure that Alastor was a screamer.

It would be fun to find out.

‘Always the screamed at, never the screamer!’ Alastor’s laugh was hearty, utterly without the edge of mockery it had once had around Angel. ‘I’ll take that bet! What are the stakes?’

‘Oh, I dunno,’ Angel said, trailing fingertips down Alastor’s neck. ‘I think I’ll just take the pleasure of winning.’ Angel had never been much for winnings; it was enough to have won. He kissed Alastor again, deeper this time, and his hands went to work divesting Alastor of his fine suit.

Alastor shivered under his touch, surprising himself. It felt _different_ than the last time Angel had undressed him, and he wasn’t sure if it was a presentiment of what was to come or the effects of Angel’s powers or both. It was probably both. When Angel undid his belt and unzipped his trousers, he went very still, drawing in a sharp breath, and reached up to pat Angel’s left middle shoulder.

‘A moment, if you would!’

His red briefs, and what was very clearly under them, had not been touched by a soul (nor a Fallen) other than himself since his arrival in Hell. The most _he’d_ done was to adopt this new style of underwear. He’d never been looked at before. Not like this.

Angel pulled all six of his hands away, moving back and giving Alastor space enough to know he was complying. It was automatic, now, and Angel was proud of himself for having practised it so much as to be automatic. ‘Take all the time you need, sweethart,’ he said, just to be reassuring. ‘No pressure. This goes as far as you want it to go, and no further.’

He almost offered to leave, but he knew that wasn’t necessary. Alastor only _seemed_ shy; that didn’t mean he wouldn’t throw a punch if he needed to… or claw, Angel thought, looking at those long red nails.

Alastor’s smile softened in gratitude. ‘I want this to go quite far! Just not too fast!’ He took a deeper, slower breath, composing himself, his shadow stretching and cracking its knuckles. Then he eased his waistband down himself, revealing a cock too long and narrow to be entirely human peeking from its sheath, the tapering head almost elliptical. It looked… it looked a surprising amount like one of Angel’s toys, actually, apart from the colour.

Angel didn’t say anything until Alastor looked settled into his nudity, and he didn’t stare, either. He didn’t need to. He kept his eyes on Alastor’s face and hands, like usual. Nothing made you more polite and gentle with other people getting naked than being a porn star.

‘You’re doin great, sweethart,’ Angel said gently, softly. ‘You’re safe with me, it’s okay.’ He didn’t care if Alastor thought that was a stupid thing for him to say; anyone was comforted by having such things said aloud.

What Alastor really had to get used to, more than just being interested in sex or being in love with Angel, was letting himself be reassured. He wasn’t supposed to _need_ reassurance. Letting his face relax further into just a half-smile, he snuggled closer to Angel, making a soft noise of appreciation at the feel of Angel’s fur and the silky peignoir against his bare skin. As he curled his legs under him, he unwittingly afforded Angel a view of a red-and-black tufted tail at the base of his spine.

Angel knew that something that cute on somenoe as fearsome as Alastor was not to be commented on, but he appreciated that it was there. No wonder he wore such a long coat, Angel thought; it was likely to hide the tail, because Angel knew the type of person who wouldn’t take it seriously. He stuck to being welcoming of Alastor’s snuggle up to him, gently wrapping his left arms around Alastor and encouraging—but not pulling—him closer, his top left hand stroking through the back of Alastor’s hair soothingly.

‘That’s it,’ Angel said, and realised he wanted to call Alastor a ‘good boy’, but stopped the words before they fell out. Well, that was new; not unexpected—it made sense for Angel to take the lead, when Alastor was the less experienced. However, because of Val’s influence and opinion, Angel hadn’t been called ‘daddy’ in a long while. It felt forbidden, almost scary; but rebellious and alluring all the same, like sneaking cigarettes and booze from your older brother’s room….

‘Tell me what you want to do to me, Angel Dust, _cher,_’ Alastor said, his voice lower than Angel had ever heard it. ‘Spare no detail.’ He ran his hand down Angel’s side, pausing at the curve of his hip, then daringly reached lower and squeezed.

Angel purred in pleasure, pressing a kiss to Alastor’s temple. ‘Oh, I _like_ that accent, is that yer real accent?’ he asked. ‘Well now, I think first I’d lay you down and have a nice look atcha, sweethart, and pet you all over…’ He stroked along that bare skin, his upper left hand still buried in Alastor’s hair gently, his lips moving against Alastor’s temple as he spoke, soft and purring—and despite popular opinion, a New York accent could purr just fine.

Alastor felt like a plucked string, like Angel’s touch should have drawn a sound from his skin instead of his throat. He lay back on the sofa, limbs akimbo but not quite spread eagle, his cock fully out now, showing its gentle curve. It helped—or perhaps didn’t—that he was thinking about a few days prior, when Angel had ridden the dildo strapped to his thigh, and what had happened afterwards. ‘How’s this?’

He loved the many ways Angel could call him _sweethart,_ sweet or possessive or both at once. Tone was so important, which was why he kept his carefully masked behind his radio voice, just as he hid any hint of the bayou. Now Angel was hearing both.

‘Mm, that’s _very_ pretty, sweet thing,’ Angel purred, keeping his voice low and the patter soothing, as he kept stroking Alastor’s hair. His lower pair of hands moved to Alastor’s hips slowly, the middle pair silding around to softly stroke the pads of his fingertips over Alastor’s dark nipples. Angel was slow, not knowing if anyone had done that, before, and not wanting to startle his lover.

‘Ah!’ Alastor squirmed a little, but out of pleasure, his back arching just slightly. ‘You’re like having three at once! Which…’ He looked up at Angel through half-lidded eyes, his little grin all sharp mischief. ‘I did try on one occasion! There was a lot of liquor going around, and I thought quantity might improve quality…’

Angel was surprised into a laugh, ‘didja like it?’ he asked, fond of orgies—but knowing how difficult they were to coordinate and choreograph.

He stretched up to bite Angel’s lower lip again, and his voice was very soft as he said, ‘…but you’re all I’ll ever need.’

Angel didn’t stop stroking his fingertips over those nipples, but he didn’t intensify, either. Escalation wasn’t the game, here, just slow introduction. Angel loved sensuality, and so few people with cocks ever had the patience, always so focussed on the orgasm. It was nice to introduce someone to pleasure, but Angel didn’t want to drown him in it.

‘It was Mardi Gras, nineteen twenty-eight, so it was hard to dislike anything! I do like this a lot better, though. As I’m confident you can tell.’ He moved his hips a little, feeling daring.

‘Mmm, anything you wanna request, hm?’ Angel had heard of Mardi Gras, but he’d never gone. The idea of it had always seemed very romantic, and Angel imagined it would be a bit like Carnivale. Aunt Lorenzo had taken him to Carnivale once, and it was a fond memory. Alastor wasn’t answering, even after a minute or two ticked by, so Angel, gently, tried to give him something to follow.

‘For example, I would really like to suck your cock,’ he said, low and soft like a secret, but not at all furtive; Alastor had said he never _could_ stand mouths, past tense. Even so, he was careful about his tone, not wanting to sound pushy. ‘I wanna know what you taste like, what noises you make, whether you’re the type-a guy to run yer fingers through my hair while I do it…’

Alastor considered this. He’d never heard Angel describe the act in a way that made clear why he really _liked_ it, and anyway, what was there for Alastor to worry about? He was one of the most powerful demons in Hell; the only disease that could kill him was an angel. There was nothing dirty or dangerous about Angel Dust’s mouth, not in any mortal sense, and the spider _had_ promised to show him all kinds of kinks.

‘Let’s find out together,’ he said, and let the next words come because they wanted to. ‘But afterwards, I want you to fuck me.’

Angel shifted, until he was kneeling on the rug, between Alastor’s splayed legs. They were elegant and faunish, and Angel was a little pleased that they would only be for him, even as the artist in him was disappointed at how one of Hell’s only actual fauns would never be able to play one on screen.

His middle hands gently held Alastor’s knees apart, his upper left wrapping gently around the base, and the right tracing down the inside crease of Alastor’s hip joint, heading for his purse. Angel kept very alert, watching Alastor’s reaction so far, wanting to take it very slowly, to make sure Alastor was having a good time.

Alastor felt electric with discovery, aware of every inch of his body in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever been before. When he’d been alive, his body had been more or less like everyone else’s, handed to him fresh off the factory floor. _This_ form was his alone, and it could experience all kinds of pleasures, besides simply the taste of a fine meal or the feel of Angel’s fur. He reached out to indulge in the latter again, using the motion to encourage Angel’s head forward. ‘Go to town, _cher,_’ he said. ‘Show me what it’s like.’

Angel looked up at him, grinning. ‘Only if you promise to keep talkin’ like that, babe,’ he said, and playfully licked the very tip in punctuation.

‘!’ said Alastor, a little burst of static issuing from between his teeth. ‘That’s—well, that’s Jake! And you only—hell! Try a little more!’ He blinked, Angel’s words finally making their way into his brain, freed from the holdup. ‘Talking like what?’

‘Off-the-air, like,’ Angel said, grinning like a cat that had gotten into the cream, and kept eye-contact as he slowly took the tip into his mouth, deep kissing it just like he did a mouth.

‘Oh. _Ohhhh—’_ What had been merely tolerable on the lips was something entirely different when applied to Alastor’s cock. He tried to communicate this, but could only gasp and let out the occasional syllable, until at last there was a brief pause and he managed the astounding feat of, ‘I see.’

_I’m never off the air!_ He’d said as much to Vox a long time ago, the television demon (Alastor refused to afford him the capital letters) having been trying to convince him to just _relax,_ flexing his hypnotic power. Well, now Alastor _could_ relax, because Vox was gone for good. It was safe for him to say, ‘I like that…’

Angel hummed, low and purring. ‘My _favourite_ candy…’ he murmured, half to himself, and decided to just dive in, wanting to know if he could startle Alastor into swearing, or blaspheming, anything really. He swallowed it down, and the tapered length went down so easy, was so unique, and Angel knew he’d never get that scent out of his head again, that he’d happily make this his new addiction….

As it turned out, Alastor could swear and blaspheme at the same time. Every filthy word he’d learned on the streets of New Orleans clamoured to be the first out of his mouth, in Louisiana French and even a little Creole, because this was good enough that the loa had to know about it. Of course, the _ghede_ were already well aware, but it didn’t hurt to tell them he’d found out at last.

Angel started to see the shadows move faster and faster, dancing and flickering with demonic glee; the air crackled with static and he pulled back, unnerved despite himself, a little shivery. ‘Uhh, Al? What… what was that?’

Alastor had felt the fingers of Erzulie Freda, who rarely reached for him but was the lwa for men who fucked men, pull away. The Ghede knew where he was, though Alastor knew they weren’t exactly _here_, themselves, residing in the plane where lwa always did; but Erzulie’s lwa had never really contacted him before. There had never been a reason.

‘That was the noises I make when you suck my cock,’ Alastor said, his voice seeming to come from deeper in his throat than usual, his accent much heavier. ‘I’m never really off the air, just on a different frequency…’

Angel looked at him, getting a weird feeling. ‘Alastor, don’t fuck around with me, are you doin’ magic or whatever? I won’t be mad, I got witch friends,’ he added, nervous but trying to make clear he wasn’t going to hurt anybody about it. He knew orgasms could be offered to gods, Spicy did that a lot, and Angel had participated in that, and gotten the same strange feeling, like a ghost was in the room.

Alastor shook himself, grounding himself back in the here and now, which was actually helped by his arousal. If he wasn’t offering it up, it was a very _present_ feeling. ‘Not intentionally, cher. I just… attracted some attention. There are powers Heaven and Hell don’t know about, or don’t want to talk about, that exist alongside them. I believed in Hell enough that I came here, but I didn’t forget.’

Angel tried to calm down, but his sense for danger was trembling every sensitive hair on his body. He shook himself. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘nothing’s gonna attack me?’ He had to ask, he had to know. Guns and knives, he understood; spirits were something else. Spirits freaked him out—it was why Alastor’s little musical number had been more unnerving than fun.

‘Nothing’s going to attack you,’ Alastor said, silently telling the lwa that he was grateful, but he didn’t want to be ridden right now. He wasn’t even sure it would be the same for them, since he wasn’t human, wasn’t part of the cycle of life and death anymore. ‘They’re not the attacking kind.’ Well, Erzulie Freda wasn’t, anyway.

Angel slowly put his mouth back on Alastor, kissing up and down the length, slowly letting himself calm down with the familiar actions, using Alastor’s noises as cues, until he slowly was deep-throating his lover again, humming low and soft, his lower hands deftly pulling a glove on one hand, his small bottle of lubricant in the other hand, putting a small amount on his fingertips and spreading it, before slowly, carefully reaching behind that soft purse, seeing if Alastor would let him.

Alastor spread his thighs wider, pushed his hips forward, feeling half drunk with excitement and the lingering feeling of the lwa’s touch. ‘Yes,’ he breathed, ‘yes, please…’

Angel spread the lube with gently pressing strokes, able to prepare someone in his sleep, even though his work suggested he was exclusively a bottom. In his private life, he wasn’t nearly so one-note and boring, and the last nearly fifty years had made him more and more inclined to top in his private life, out of sheer boredom if nothing else.

He wasn’t bored now, and there was something comforting about the familiar caress of gently opening up a boy, gently sucking his brains out of his cock, gently driving him to scream Angel’s name….

Oh, Christ, Alastor was speaking _French_ in that smoky southern accent, that was _so_ delicious, Angel was _soaked_ from arousal.

Whatever Alastor was saying, it ended in a full-blown cry of ‘—_mon Annnnnge!’_ as he came. The lightbulbs fizzled and flared, sparking painfully bright, throwing his arching, writhing shadow into lightning relief, before they went out entirely, the glass bursting.

Alastor slumped on the couch, broken glass glittering in the scarlet light of his eyes. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You win.’

Angel pulled off, voice husky and low in his favourite way, all four eyes flashing green in the light Alastor’s eyes were giving off, like the giant wolf spiders Alastor’s cellar had been infested with. His two fingers were still knuckle-deep inside his boy—mm, his _boy_, he liked the sound of that—but he stilled them. ‘That was beautiful, baby,’ he purred, and grinned. ‘Ready for my cock?’

And he _had_ one now, Angel thought with exhilaration. he could have one now! He wondered how it felt. He felt giddy with anticipation—he was a virgin to this too, even though he knew exactly how to do it. And it felt so special, giving that first experience to Alastor….

If Alastor had still been tense, or perhaps just wanted to tease, he would have said something like, _Indubitably!_ But he couldn’t, he just couldn’t, say anything other than, ‘Yes, Daddy.’

Angel shivered in a new way, at the sound of that. One would think the word was poison, now, with Val and all—but it wasn’t. Daddy had been his word long before Val had misused it. Carefully, he slid his fingers out, stripped off the glove, and rolled on a condom. His cock was striped white and pink, long and elegant as he wanted it to be, not at all threatening for a scared boy about to take it for the first time. Angel had done that on purpose.

He moved over Alastor with the same grace that six hands always gave him, able to stroke Alastor’s hair with one of his upper hands as he slowly lifted and spread Alastor’s thighs wider, his lower hands doing the fine manoeuvring, pressing his cock up against Alastor. ‘Ready?’ he asked, smoothing more lubricant onto his cock. ‘Gonna need you to take a slow, deep breath in for me, baby, okay? And…’

Alastor obliged, holding it for a moment, feeling as though he was on the edge of another precipice. He wanted this, he wanted Angel in every way it was possible to have him, and he wanted Angel to have him, too. Alastor had never been the type to do anything by half measures, once he really got into the swing of it. And he was certainly there now.

His thighs tensed, but only a little, his body still loose from the orgasm, ready to accept whatever came its way because everything was wonderful.

He exhaled, and Angel slid into him.

Much to his pleasure, Angel’s body seemed to shapeshift to perfectly fit without him having to direct the magic. He sighed, eyes fluttering closed, feeling like he’d just slid into a perfectly still, warm pool of water that he’d always skated on the surface of before, but now finally, finally submerged in. (In a way, he had—Angel was the first concubus in centuries, and the first to become one after death, rather than instead of ever dying at all. Miles away, across the pentagram, Yve startled, and then smiled, knowing exactly who it was.

‘Always knew he was holdin’ you back,’ she murmured.)

Opening his eyes, Angel looked down at Alastor’s face, wanting to see it, perfectly still and feeling more at peace than he ever had before.

Alastor was smiling, but only just, a gentle curve of his lips that only showed the very tips of his teeth, parting in a little gasp as Angel watched. His eyelids were fluttering, his head tipped back, and those red sigils danced over his antlers and down his shoulders in a silent parade, their light glimmering off the sweat on his skin. His lips moved, and Angel knew what _mon ange_ looked like, this time.

‘I’m gonna move—ah, fuck, I’m _shaking_, lookit me,’ Angel said, his breathless laughter more delighted and wondering than truly teasing. ‘You’re _so_ good, you’re _so_ good…’ He slowly started to pull out, and the tactile feedback was almost enough to scramble his brain entirely—it was certainly much easier to fuck someone with a cock in this location, if the cock was attached to you with more than a harness, that was certain. Angel wasn’t sure what noises he was making, but he was certainly making some, and had to pause to catch his breath, remembering to add more lube before pushing back in.

Alastor let out a sound that wasn’t a word at all, his talons sinking deep into the couch, hips thrusting forward to meet Angel. He understood, now, where the need to invoke gods and their attendants came from, why people were _ridden_ by the lwa.

‘Move,’ he echoed, and it was Angel’s voice, because he couldn’t manage his own. Another gasp, and he said, as himself, ‘Yes.’

It was _chilling_, but not quite so much as it might have been for someone born late enough to have encountered the concept of ghosts messing with static. Angel was starting to find it endearing, just like any other quirk of a new lover. It was sort of charming, that Alastor’s composure slipped enough that he couldn’t use his own voice, had to use cut-and-paste recordings.

The first few thrusts were much the same—slow, pausing to add lube, until he was slipping more easily in and out, and could establish a rhythm. Maddening, overwhelming, crashing as the pleasure was, the condom helped Angel last, and for that, he was grateful. ‘You doin’ okay, sweethart?’ he asked, pausing while fully sheathed to catch his breath. He was strong, but he wasn’t used to this kind of motion, yet, and needed to take a breather.

‘More than okay,’ Alastor said, the pause letting him regain enough presence of mind to actually speak. ‘I’m wonderful. _You’re_ wonderful. And the beat’—he moved his hips—’well, you could dance to it, more than we already are.’ He turned that little smile up at Angel, freeing one hand to cup Angel’s face, noticing, in dreamlike detail, the bits of couch stuffing stuck to his claws. ‘We should go dancing, you and I. And then come home and do this again…’

‘That a date?’ Angel laughed, leaning into that caress; but it was gentle. Fuck, he could be so _soft_ around this version of Alastor, he _liked_ this. He rolled his hips again, a slower tempo this time, pacing himself, not sure how an orgasm worked, when it was like this….

Alastor saw his eyes glaze over, and then close, as he concentrated on Alastor, his right lower hand eventually taking Alastor’s cock and starting to pump it in time with the thrusts, his middle hands going up to tease little circles around those inviting nipples.

Alastor had been aware for a little while that he was hard again, but he hadn’t felt compelled to do much about it, wanting only to experience it as part of the _banquet_ of sensations that was Angel filling him, moving in him. He noised at the touch, almost a yelp, and then, urged on by Angel’s touch to his chest, he was coming again before he knew it.

This time it was different, in ways he couldn’t have described. Like AM and FM, perhaps, the latter of which they’d had the nerve to invent just after he died. He wasn’t really thinking about radio—he wasn’t really thinking about _anything_—but he was the Radio Demon, that was the core of him, and his brain was going to offer what it knew best.

Or… or it was like the difference between biting into Angel for the first time, and eating his liver delicately off a plate. There were _two_ things he knew best.

Angel brought him over the crest, but that orgasm milked his own out of him, and he really _understood_ now, what that meant, and it was _amazing_. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he buried his face in Alastor’s neck, and _bit_, and his instincts seemed to do the rest. There was no venom, and while he was sucking a bruise to flower on that pale skin, he wasn’t sucking _blood_—he was drinking something less substantial, feeding on Alastor’s pleasure and doubling his own, his first meal as an incubus.

Alastor cried out, a single long note, and his shadow trembled with it, a sudden bloody light throwing it onto the wall. And Angel’s shadow rose and unfurled to meet it, joining with it as their bodies were joined. There was more to it, though, than just Angel’s silhouette. His shadow had spread great dark wings, and a tail, tipped with a devilish spade, curled back over his poised hips. Alastor felt his head nudged to the side, and looked, and smiled.

Angel’s shadow was new to all this, had been locked up inside a contract for so long; and he wanted to _play_, was an unfettered id to the flesh-and-bone he was chained to. He embraced Alastor’s shadow, and flooded him with all the pleasure he was feeling—perhaps a little less gently than Angel played with Alastor on the sofa, but shadows are rough and flicker-edged creatures, and do not know gentleness.

Alastor’s shadow laughed and laughed, jaws wide in jagged, soundless delight, raking claws down Angel’s shadow’s back—delicious pain that Angel felt, even though Alastor’s hands were at his sides. This had never happened to Alastor before, and so he let his shadow take the lead. Its revels amplified his aftershocks, bringing him almost back to the brink of orgasm, and he knew Angel felt it too.

Angel arched and hissed, unsure where it came from, yet knowing it had come from Alastor’s shadow; it drew his eye to the figures on the wall, and he realised one was _his_, now, and watched them, a little mesmerised, until Alastor pulled him back down to the world of flesh with a bite to his neck—teeth sank in, but mercifully Alastor seemed to understand that he wasn’t to take chunks out of Angel without asking first.

‘Mnhh! Sorry, babe,’ he said, good-naturedly contrite. When Alastor released him, he slid out carefully, threw away the condom, and cleaned them up with a tea-towel wet with warm water (it was a break room, there weren’t exactly washcloths), before offering Alastor some water. ‘That was amazing, huh? My first time fuckin’ anybody with a cock I grew myself, can you believe it?’

He offered the information as a gift, hoping Alastor understood the treasure it was.

Alastor was grateful for the water, both because his throat had decided it needed to be raw, and because it cleaned his palate of the little taste he’d gotten of Angel’s new and improved blood. Hopefully that was something they could explore later. He knew better how to discuss _that, _than he did Angel’s accomplishment, which was saying something. Was he supposed to talk about it? It hadn’t really crossed his mind that Angel might be sensitive in anything other than the physical sense, because at the time it hadn’t mattered _what_ Angel fucked him with, just that he’d needed it. He could make a joke, say that he would have expected Angel to stop and do a few trial runs before coming to see him, but it probably wouldn’t land the way he wanted it to.

‘It was,’ he said at last, relaxing into the feeling of his cooling skin. ‘And I’m sure you’ll come up with many more variations!’

Angel saw the awkward deer-in-headlights look, and contrary to the annoyance he expected to feel about it, it only made him ruffle Alastor’s hair and laugh fondly. ‘You betta believe it, kiddo,’ he said, even though they both knew Alastor was older, it didn’t really matter, in that moment, and that was one thing Angel liked—there was no static hierarchy, with them; everything flexed into whatever shape their love needed it to be at the time.

Angel sipped at his own water a while, lounging back on the sofa, staring down at his cock in a bit of fascination, before slanting a gaze over at Alastor.

‘Hey…. I love you,’ he said, feeling his shadow rub against Alastor’s affectionately. Some might have compared it to a cat, but Angel knew spiders rubbed against things affectionately too.

Alastor needed a little space to himself after all that—not much, just a few inches’ breathing room, but his shadow put a companionable arm around Angel’s, tugging it close. ‘I love you too, cher.’

Given time, now that he felt comfortable enough, he’d come up with some endearment just for Angel, but until then it was only fair to do the bare minimum—_and_ to say those three other words without agonising over them. Maybe it was because Angel was safely on his power level now, or maybe it was just the general post-coital amiability he felt about everything.

‘Is there anything else we should be doing?’ he wondered. ‘We have the glass of water…’

Angel sipped, watching their shadows, fascinated at his own—Why did his have a tail and wings? What did that mean?—as he thought on how to answer. ‘Did you have fun?’ he asked. It was always a good place to start. ‘Was there anything you liked best?’

‘I suppose “the orgasms” doesn’t help?’ Alastor chuckled, absently trying to smooth his very disheveled hair. ‘I liked the moment I lost our bet, and I liked the moment you entered me, and when you suddenly…’ He curled his fingers and made a quick up-and-down motion. ‘I liked how meticulous you were, how dedicated. I liked how much _you_ liked it, and that’s where it gets all tangled up.’

Angel listened, all eyes on Alastor, and smiled widely. ‘What a _catch_ you are, doll,’ he said, chuckling. ‘You know how few people take pleasure in that? Could use more of ‘em.’ He reached out with one of his middle hands, taking Alastor’s hand and squeezing fondly. ‘I’m glad you noticed my part; I get off on my partner havin’ a good time, too.’

‘At this rate, neither of us is ever getting on again!’ Alastor didn’t keep that up for long, though, dropping back to a more sedate tone as he asked, ‘Will you still teach me more unusual things? I know that wasn’t exactly conventional by most standards, but I’ve always liked esoterica, even the erotic kind.’ He seemed to have settled on something between his two extremes, keeping the intonation and vocabulary of his on-air voice with the softer, more vulnerable diction only Angel got to hear.

Angel felt a flutter in his chest, and moved closer, giving Alastor one of his famous hugs—having six arms meant that he gave _very_ good hugs, and the fluff on his chest helped. ‘Of course,’ he said, holding Alastor gently. ‘I’ll teach ya everything you wanna know, babe.’

Alastor bit his cheek very lightly. ‘I may very well want to know everything.’

Angel Dust pulled back, setting his forehead against Alastor’s gently. ‘Then I’ll teach you everything,’ he promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the end of Book 1! The next chapter will start Book 2 of this three volume novel, and will focus in on Spice Drop... and someone else.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come see me on Discord!](http://discord.gg/76nCqDh) Also, [Lord Sinuous](http://lord-sinuous-of-tree.tumblr.com) and [Angel](http://wreckedverse-angel-dust.tumblr.com) have tumblrs!


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